The Disappeared
by caliope23
Summary: During "Granite State" Walt and Saul are sequestered at the cleaners. When it comes time for Saul to leave for his new life in Nebraska, Walt declares, "Change of plans. He's coming with me." This fic follows that thread, exploring what would have happened had Walt and Saul disappeared together.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Defiant Ones

Saul, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 1

I was vanishing into thin air. The life that I had so meticulously crafted was disintegrating all around me. It was like I'd pulled out a piece on a Jenga puzzle and lost. Time to create a new identity.

The man who was gonna change my life picked me up in an old van. It was pretty anti-climatic; I guess I was expecting to be swept away by the Bat Mobile, or something deep undercover, like a garbage truck. No, my life was gonna be changed by a man in a maroon Toyota. And the guy driving the van, that was Ed, the extractor himself. I thought he'd have a vast network of associates, like the Underground Railroad, but apparently, this guy ran a streamlined operation.

He wasn't a tough guy like I expected, but a guy with a greying crewcut who looked like a grandpa or, at the most, like a retired private eye. I didn't care because I was so damn relieved to step into that van.

I hustled my bags into the back and took a seat. I breathed in deep but my breath got caught on an overpowering old car odor that smelled vaguely of dog.

I smiled, looking out the window as my last glances of Albuquerque whisked by. No more Walter White, no Jesse Pinkman, no more lunatic drug dealers, or DEA agents crawling up my ass. But I had no delusions. I knew I was walking away from life as I knew it. But life as I knew it had been reduced to representing these terrible men who'd do anything for their own survival. All my attachments had withered away. The hiss of death had become so loud I'd do almost anything to survive. _Almost_ anything.

Ed took me to a vacuum cleaner repair shop. He actually dealt in vacuum cleaners—the nerve of this guy. No metaphors in his repertoire. I allowed myself a brief chuckle, but then I thought about Walt. He'd be using the extractor too, and if luck prevailed, we would _not_ overlap.

"So, how's Walt?" I ventured, to see where the landscape laid.

"See for yourself," Ed said, pointing to a video surveillance monitor. My heart paused for a moment. The monitor showed a sterile room with a little window, a couple of cots, and an agitated Walter White pacing around like a baboon. I felt a sucking sensation pulling me deep back in to my old world. I took a Xanax.

The extractor said Walt and I would be bunkmates for a couple of days. Ed didn't have to remind me, but he reminded me anyway, that my case was made more difficult by my saturation ad campaign. That made me think—turn off the TV ads—but on second thought no, I was disappearing into thin air. A dead man doesn't cancel advertising.

Ed took me down to the safe room, which had a stale, unpleasant air, like a locker room. Walt wasn't surprised to see me and seemed to not care one way or another about my presence. He railed on and on, mostly about Jack Welker and how Welker took his "life's work." They were the ravings of a thwarted tyrant. I wondered if Walt had lost it. Well, let's face it, Walt had been losing it right along, but maybe now he had slipped into some dark place where no form of reason could reach him.

I felt a little sorry for him, and then I felt angry at myself for having compassion for this mad man. If there was someone to blame for my life falling apart, it would have to be Walt. I mean, he kidnapped me at gunpoint to get me to do his bidding in the first place. And now here we were, fugitives, imprisoned in this 'safe room' together. I vowed to keep my head down and to not engage him.

That first day we both pretty much kept quiet. It was hard for me to remain silent, but I wasn't crazy enough to venture into the maelstrom that was Walter White without provocation.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 1

I was mulling over my revenge options when the door to the basement opened and in walked Saul Goodman, all mousy and paranoid.

He brought matching blue suitcases with him, an electric, sissy blue. I had to assume one of those bags, probably the smallest, was filled with money—the children of _my_ genius.

I barely acknowledged him. He reeked of weakness. He still had the bruises on his face from where Jesse beat him. What was _he_ running from? He wasn't suspected of killing anyone. What's the worst thing he'd done? Aiding and abetting? Money laundering? He'd throw his life away for that?

I was too busy for commiserating. I had too much to do and no tools with which to do it. Priority One: exact revenge on Jack Welker… get my money back and kill the thieving son-of-a-bitch. Priority Two: get the money to my family. Priority Three: tie-up loose ends.

I started to make a list of things I'd need from Ed. First item: throw-away smart phone to follow breaking news. Second item: newspaper. Ed had taken my phone, said he didn't want me to make any accidental calls or to, God forbid, answer the phone—like calling has become some kind of animal reflex.

The worst part of being disappeared was that I couldn't reach out to Skyler or Junior. What must they think? That I killed Hank, that's what. Would they really think I was capable of that? Maybe they'd read about the SUV perforated with hundreds of bullets and realize how heroically I acted. That I was almost killed and that I tried to _save_ Hank. My own brother-in-law. How could they think differently? Because the DEA would lie to Skyler, that's how. They'd tell her that I'd masterminded Hank's murder, just like I'd planned and executed everything else. Who was she going to believe? The DEA or her 'disappeared' husband? Hell, maybe she thought I was dead. Guilty and dead.

Saul, Thursday Morning, Day 2

On the second day he spoke, and as I suspected, I liked silent Walt much better. He asked me to list five hit men, like I was some kind of directory assistance operator for the criminally insane. I tried to explain that I didn't know any hit men, but Walt didn't care about reality. He thought I could reconstruct my chain of contacts out of thin air.

I got out of it through sleight of hand… talking my way out, like I manage most problems. I changed the topic and focused on Skyler and how he should do the right thing by her. My suggestion was radical: Walt should stay and take responsibility.

We were discussing the more subtle points of RICO seizure laws, moving large sums of illegal money, and familial responsibilities when Ed opened the door and announced that I was ready to go. A wave of relief passed over me, I felt the tension going out of almost every one of my muscles. But the feeling lasted precisely one nanosecond because Walt was saying something…

"Change of plans. He's coming with me," Walt told Ed.

I was bombarded by a dump of adrenalin that put my whole system on red alert. I protested pathetically, "No. No, that's not…"

"We're going together. I can use him," Walt was saying. _What the hell?_

Ed said he would give us a minute to discuss and he left me alone with Walt. I tried to explain to Walt that I wasn't a lawyer anymore. Subtext: I was done being _used_ by egomaniacal drug lords.

But Walt kept backing me up, right into the wall. Literally. _Here comes an ass-kicking,_ I thought. But the cancer had him back in its grip and it seized him with a coughing attack. The spittle rattled in his chest and he fell to the cot, fighting for air. I heard Ed open the door and I thought, _Freedom beckons_.

"It's over," I told Walt, self-satisfied that I had stood my ground, metaphorically anyway. I grabbed my bags and started up the steps only to be met by the muzzle of a gun. Again. Twice in one week. Ed looked regretful, but he always looked kind of sad. Maybe it was his line of work.

"Don't do this…" I stammered.

"Sorry, counselor," Ed said. I heard Walt behind me and turned to see him holding the wand of a vacuum cleaner. It seemed incongruous until he revealed its purpose by swinging the wand at me. He caught me in the knee, and I did a Humpty Dumpty down the stairs, suitcases and all.

Next thing I knew they were digging me out of a tangle of luggage and spilled clothes. Ed helped Walt toss me on the cot and then Walt used handcuffs to fetter me to the metal frame.

I was having some difficulty processing what had just happened. Clearly, Walt had bought off Ed. It was painful, seeing as Ed was "my guy" and everything. But Walt had more buying power than me, an oil barrel full versus a tote bag. And Walt was mean, a sadistic creep; he must have remembered me saying I have bad knees on that night out in the desert when he and Jesse threatened to toss me in a grave. Why can't I keep my mouth shut?

"Walt, what the hell?" I found my voice, but it was weak and trembly, giving away my sheer terror.

"I told you, Saul, it's not over until I say it is," he said, his voice filled with rancor.

"You expect me to cooperate with you?" I protested, though I had a feeling he had this all figured out. "Let me stay here, then. I can do more good as your lawyer if I don't run." The pain from the knee was radiating up and down my leg, sending my muscles into spasm.

Walt approached my cot. I tried to shrink away. He held two photographs about five inches from my face. One was Chuck and the other Kim. Chuck, I had mixed feelings about. But Kim... "What do you want from me?" I asked, my voice breaking.

Walt, Thursday Afternoon

I started to realize Saul might be useful after all. I figured he could be a sort of assistant to me while on the lam since I'd be under deep cover, unable to show my face. His disappearance wasn't going to attract the same publicity as mine. He could be out and about. He could be my errand boy in addition to providing the occasional legal advice.

In the sobering dank of Ed's cellar, Saul seemed to be calming down, sloughing off his Goodman character. His over-the-top posturing and manic energy were dissipating. For the first time ever he wore a normal shirt, white with simple vertical stripes. Who knew he had that in his wardrobe? Did he go out and buy special clothes for disappearing? Probably. In any event, I sort of liked this new Saul that was emerging in captivity.

But apparently Saul didn't have the same vision for the fugitive life as I did, claimed he was no longer a lawyer! Ha. He had balked on supplying the names of hit men and I could see that he wasn't going to cooperate without incentive. I had gone upstairs on the pretext of doing paperwork for my new identity. Instead, I set about lining up some things to ensure the continued services of my counsel.

I got in touch with one of Saul's men, Patrick Kuby. It turned out that his loyalty was to the highest bidder. Plus it helped that Kuby was pissed at Saul, who'd disappeared without settling up with the henchman.

Kuby did some research on the important people in Saul's life. At first, we thought we were going to have to use that bitch, Francesca. But Kuby was able to unearth a disabled brother and a surprisingly fetching ex-girlfriend. It was easy enough for him to take a candid photo of the ex getting into her car.

The brother, however, was a shut-in and proved to be a more difficult photographic subject. Kuby ended up posing as a meter reader and knocked on his door. That photo was priceless: the brother flinching at having his picture taken. When I showed Saul the pictures, I had to reassure him that I hadn't emalready/em hurt his brother.

The photos accomplished their purpose. Well, the photos combined with a little bit of intimidation. Mind you, I'm not violent by nature, but sometimes you have to resort to it to accomplish your goals. Saul's a squirrelly one, and he needed a little convincing.

I'd hit him in the knee to ensure his cooperation. That, and I was a little mad at him. What kind of lawyer gives up on his client in his time of need? If Saul tried to run, that knee would slow him down.

But I still worried that my hold on Saul was tenuous. He could see the difficulty I was having in putting together a hit on the Welker crew, that my efforts were dependent upon his contacts. I wasn't exactly building credibility. He had to wonder how much of a serious threat I could be to his brother and his ex-girlfriend.

Saul, Saturday, Day 4

I was surprised at how quickly Ed lined up new identities for Walt and me now that we were disappearing together. I suspect he must have been working on these identities even before the whole vacuum cleaner wand incident. Ed came into the safe room and declared, "You're going to Minneapolis. You'll be brothers. Frank," he nodded at Walt, "and Paul Dobbs."

"Whoa, wait. Saul/Paul? Is that some kind of biblical humor?" I asked. "Because it's not funny."

Ed paused and considered me. I don't think he usually had to spend so much time with his customers. "I don't make these names up. Believe me. I had to search long and hard for the same two surnames. Maybe think of this as your conversion: Saul becomes Paul…"

"Well, the Jewish thing was getting old…"

"You're not Jewish?" Ed asked.

Snap. I'd stepped in it.

Ed wanted us to start using the names right away. It would jeopardize the cause if someone heard us calling each other 'Walt' and 'Saul.' Neither one of us had an on-the-down-low kind of name like, say, 'John.' Especially me. There had to be, what, five 'Sauls' in all of New Mexico? And Minneapolis wasn't going to be much better.

Ed also wanted us to grow beards; Walt was to fill his out and I was to grow a full beard. I hate facial hair. And _Ed_ was going to give me a _hair cut_. Goodbye comb-over. I wondered if getting my hair cut would tarnish my creative abilities.

Walt, Saturday

The photographs proved sufficient motivation for Saul to come through with the name of a middle man: 'Simon'. Ed brought me Saul's cell phone and I perused the contact list, but all he had in there was a list of movies and TV shows.

"What is this, Saul? Your pathetic attempt at coding your phone numbers? Where's your decoder ring? What's the secret code for Simon?"

He tongue was playing with a tooth causing his mouth to fall open like an idiot. It was his nervous tick. I could tell I was pushing him, but I didn't want to take it too far. It would be so easy to break him. "The Day of the Jackal," he answered. I wrote down the number, then out of curiosity looked for my old phone number.

"Dr. Strangelove? A bit obvious, isn't it?" I remarked.

I couldn't resist messing with him. I hit send and handed the phone back. He reacted like it was a hot potato, desperately fumbling for the end call button.

"Nice job, Walt. You just established in the phone record that I tried to contact you. Makes you look alive."

"No. It makes _you_ look alive and wondering where I am."

Saul, Saturday Night

Walt had this crazy plan. He wanted to eliminate Jack Welker and his neo-Nazis and he wanted _me_ to make the arrangements. I was to call my middle man (AKA the guy who knows a guy) and put together a meet to make a down payment and provide intelligence about the operation. While I had used Simon's services plenty of times over the years, clients had always handled making the contact with Simon themselves. I was a complete novice at setting up a hit.

Ed would drive me to the meet with Simon, but that's it. Apparently there are limits to his involvement. Like he's not going to get out of the car when there are guns about.

I would not be carrying; Walt wasn't about to trust me with a gun. Hell, he only begrudgingly agreed to get me a crutch, and he knew full well I could barely walk without it.

On the way to the meet, I asked Ed "What's he paying you…. I'll double it." Damn if I wasn't going to take every opportunity to get the hell away.

"He's paying me with your money," Ed said in that emotionless way of his.

"Aw, crap," I hung my head, defeated.

"I have to give Walt a full report. Best if you don't ask too many questions." Ed had drunk the Kool-aid. I could remind him about all the business I'd floated his way over the years, but somehow it didn't seem like loyalty was a big motivator for him. And, obviously, my frequent flyer status was now coming to an end.

Ed stopped on the street near the alley where I was meeting Simon.

"Uh, dya think you could get a little closer?" I asked, pointing to the crutch.

"Sorry. I'm keeping my distance." I gave Ed a disgusted look and scrambled out of the van inelegantly. By the time I was a quarter of the way down the alley I had worked up a sweat in spite of the crisp fall night.

Simon stepped out from behind a dumpster. I'd always assumed he was kind of impish because, well, he was British and also because he always seemed kind of nervous on the phone. He wasn't tall, maybe 5'10", but he was built. Definitely not an imp.

"Bloody hell, Saul, you're a cripple?" Simon greeted me.

"Just temporarily. I twisted my knee."

Simon kept scanning the alley. "Let's go with the money."

"Wait a minute," I said, putting on my tough guy voice. "Change of plans… I give you the money and all you have to do is get me out of here."

"What?"

"I'm being held against my will. I need a ride out of here. I'll give you all the money, just for that." Involuntarily, my register came up.

Simon chuckled. "$100,000? To help you escape? From whom?" Just then, Ed's van appeared at the end of the alley, hovering there. Simon pulled out a gun and in one seamless motion he grabbed me from behind and held the gun to my temple.

"A simpler plan would be: I just take the money." The crutch had slipped away and I was still upright only with Simon's unwitting assistance.

I raised my hands to show my defenselessness, hoping this guy had a sense of mercy. "The money, Saul," he said.

I was carrying the money in a fanny pack, turned around so the pouch was at my stomach. I reached for it but Simon pushed me down. I tried to break my fall without bending my knee, causing my wrist to jam. Simon liberated the fanny pack then he kicked me in the stomach. _Now_ Ed decides to drive into the alley.

I scrambled to my feet. "He took the money! We have to catch him!"

Ed had climbed out of the van to help me get in. "What the hell happened?" Ed asked.

"He's not gonna hire the hit man! He jumped me!"

"He stole the money?"

"Yes!"

Ed took me down to the bunker like he was taking me to the lions. He left me alone with Walt who was pacing as if already knew something went wrong.

"It was a set up," I said, my voice sounding desperate, almost pleading. Walt stopped dead and gave me the stink eye. Now, surely, here would come an ass-kicking. But Walt started coughing instead. I made note: the coughing would overtake him whenever he got upset. Useful information.

"The cancer is back?" I asked, sounding more sympathetic than I intended to. Walt just gave me a steely stare.

I headed toward the sanctuary of my cot. My whole world had been reduced to a lumpy two inch mattress on top of a creaky, jabbing, metal frame. I laid down and offered him my right hand for the handcuff, but withheld the left. "Just the one hand, please. I think this might be broken." I showed him my left wrist as if he cared.

"Jesus, Saul, what happened?" I looked into Walt's eyes and saw a softness there, the same sympathy that I heard in his voice.

"There were two of them and they had guns. They jumped me and took the money." Walt put his hands up to his head. I glanced surreptitiously up at the camera, as if it could let me see whether or not Ed was watching.

"So, no hit?" Walt asked.

I shook my head no, averting my gaze, scared of what might happen next.

Walt picked up the house phone and called up Ed. "Can we get a couple of ice packs down here?"

Walt, Saturday Night

Ed and Saul were gone for about an hour. A reasonable amount of time, but I got antsy anyway. I envisioned all the scenarios of how things could go wrong. When I saw Saul, I knew that they had.

He was roughed up, and his crutch had scuffs on it—scratches from the asphalt. So, I knew he wasn't faking, or if he was faking, it was a masterful job. He had a terrified look in his eyes, like a cornered animal. He explained to me what happened, but he didn't need to. He got overpowered by an opportunistic middle man. What did I expect?

I wasn't as upset about the money as I was the lost contact. Now how was I going to find a hit man? I'd have to come up with another plan.


	2. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Saul, Saturday, Day 4

Ed had a new project now. He had to figure out how to disappear the two of us, together. He came into the safe room and declared, "Minneapolis. You'll be brothers. Frank," he nodded at Walt, "and Paul Dobbs." He had to have been working on this already.

"Is that some kind of biblical humor? Saul/Paul," I asked him.

"I don't make these names up. Believe me, I had to search long and hard for the same two surnames," Ed paused and considered me. I don't think he usually has to spend so much time with his customers. "Maybe think of this as your conversion: Saul becomes Paul…"

"Well, the Jewish thing was getting old…"

"You're not Jewish?" Snap. I stepped in it. What the hell… I went ahead and told Ed about Jimmy McGill.

His reaction: "so you're an old pro at identity change. Should be a piece of cake for you." Ed wanted us to start using the names right away. It would jeopardize the cause if someone heard us calling each other Walt and Saul, and neither one of us had a on-the-down-low kind of name like, say, John. Especially me. There had to be, what, five Sauls in all of New Mexico. And Minneapolis wasn't going to be much better.

Ed also wanted us to grow beards—Walt was to fill his out; I was to grow a full beard. I hate facial hair. And Ed was going to give me a hair cut. Goodbye comb-over. It was the end of me strategically growing my hair out in specific places in order to solve problems. I wondered if getting my hair cut out would tarnish my creative abilities.

Walt had this crazy plan. He wanted to eliminate Jack Welker's neo-Nazis and he wanted **me** to hire the hit man that would do it. I was to call my middle man (aka the guy who knows a guy) and arrange a meet to make a down payment and provide intelligence about the operation. Ed would drive me, but that's it. Apparently there are limits to his involvement. Like he's not going to get out of the car when there are guns about. I, on the other hand, would not be carrying; Walt wasn't about to trust me with a gun. He begrudgingly agreed to get me a crutch, and he knew full well I could barely walk without it.

"What's he paying you?" I asked Ed as we were driving to the meet. Damn if I wasn't going to take every opportunity to get the hell away. "I'll double it," I hedged.

"He's paying me with your money," Ed said in that emotionless way of his.

"Aw, hell," I hung my head, defeated.

"I have to give Walt a full report. Best you don't ask too many questions." Ed had drunk the Kool-aid. I could remind Ed about all the business I'd floated his way over the years, but somehow loyalty didn't seem like it was a big motivator for him. He stopped on the street around the corner from the alley where I was meeting "Simon," the middle man.

"Uh, dya think you could get a little closer?" I asked, pointing to the crutch.

"Sorry. I'm keeping my distance." I gave Ed a disgusted look and scrambled out of the van inelegantly. By the time I was a quarter of the way down the alley I had worked up a sweat despite the crisp fall weather.

Simon stepped out from behind a dumpster. He was a British guy, and I'd assumed he was kind of impish because, well, he was British and also he always seemed kind of nervous on the phone. He wasn't tall, maybe 5'10", but he was built.

"Jesus, Saul, you're a cripple?" Simon greeted me.

"Just temporarily. I twisted my knee." His question was throwing me off my script. "It's nice to finally meet you in person," I worked in my rehearsed line and sounded like an idiot. I wasn't any good at meetings about hits.

Simon kept looking up and down the alley, "Yeah, yeah, let's go with the money."

"Wait a minute," I said, I put on my tough guy voice, dropping register: "Change of plans… I give you the money and all you have to do is get me out of here."

"What?"

"I'm being held against my will. I need a ride out of here. I'll give you all the money, just for that." Involuntarily my register came back up.

"$100,000? To help you escape? From whom?" Just then, Ed's van appeared at the end of the alley. Simon pulled out a gun and in one seamless motion he grabbed me from behind around the chest and held the gun to my temple. "A simpler plan would be: you just give _me_ the money." The crutch had slipped away and I was still upright only with Simon's unwitting assistance.

I raised my hands up to show my defenselessness, hoping this guy had a sense of mercy. "The money, Saul," he said, still sounding nervous, leery of the van. I was carrying the money in a fanny pack, turned around so the pouch was at my stomach. I reached for it but Simon pushed me down. I tried to break my fall without bending my knee, causing me to jam my wrist. I was writhing when next I knew Simon was liberating the fanny pack. Once he had the money, he gave me a kick in the stomach, I guess to make sure I wasn't going anywhere, and then he was off. **Now** Ed decides to drive into the alley and retrieve me.

I'd also hit my forehead when I fell, so I was pretty banged up and I was panicking. "He took the money! We have to catch him!"

Ed had climbed out of the van to help me get in. "What the hell happened?" Ed asked.

"He's not gonna hire the hit man."

"He stole the money?"

"Yes! This meet was just a set up."

Ed took me down to the bunker and left me alone with Walt like he was taking me to the lions. Walt was pacing as if knew something went wrong. Well, I guess my tattered appearance was a clue. My shirt was partially untucked, there was blood on my forehead, and I was cradling my wrist when I stood still.

"It was a set up," I said, my voice sounding desperate, almost pleading. Walt stopped dead and gave me the stink eye. Now, surely, here would come an ass-kicking. But Walt started coughing instead. I made note: the coughing would overtake him whenever he got upset. That meant at any moment he was on the verge of a debilitating attack. Useful information.

"The cancer is back?" I asked, sounding more sympathetic than I intended to. I headed toward the sanctuary of my cot. My whole world of personal space had been reduced to a lumpy two inch mattress on top of a creaky, jabbing, metal frame. I laid down and Walt, using what strength he could muster, shackled me in. I offered him my right hand for the handcuff, but withheld the left. "Just the one hand, please. I think this might be broken." I showed him my left wrist like he cared.

"Jesus, Saul, what happened?" I looked into Walt's eyes and saw the same sympathy there that I heard in his voice.

"There were two of them and they had a gun. They jumped me and took the money." Walt put his hands up to his head. I glanced surreptitiously up at the camera, as if I could see through it whether or not Ed was watching.

"So, no hit?" Walt asked. I shook my head no, keeping my head down for whatever came next.

Walt picked up the house phone instead and called up Ed. "Can we get a couple of ice packs down here?"

Walt, Saturday, Day 4

I figured Saul could be a sort of assistant to me since I'd be under deep cover—unable to show my face. Saul, on the other hand, could be out and about. He could be my errand boy in addition to providing the occasional legal advice. I'd hit his knee to ensure his cooperation—he couldn't easily run with a bum knee and I wasn't yet clear on whether the photographs would have the requisite effect, so I needed the additional insurance. Still I felt my hold on Saul was tenuous. He could see the difficulty we were having in putting together a hit on the Welker crew. I wasn't exactly building credibility. He had to wonder how much of a serious threat I could be to his brother and his ex-girlfriend.

After I showed him the photographs, Saul came through with the name of a middle man. We retrieved Saul's phone from Ed and found "Simon's" number. I took Saul's phone from him to peruse the contact list but all he had in there was a list of movies and TV shows. "What is this, Saul? Your pathetic attempt at coding your phone numbers?" I found my old number. "Dr. Strangelove? A bit obvious, isn't it?" I gave him the phone back. His tongue was playing with his tooth causing his mouth to fall open like an idiot; I could tell I was pushing him, and I didn't want to take it too far. It would be so easy to break him.

"Nice job, Walt. You just established in the phone record that I tried to contact you. Makes you look alive."

"No, it makes _you_ look alive and wondering where I am."

We set up a meeting with Saul's middle man to exchange the down payment. I asked Saul how many times he'd worked with this guy and he assured me it was a multitude of times. I didn't feel good sending a him out there without a gun, but what choice did I have? Ed refused to broker the deal, though he agreed to drive. They were gone for about an hour. A reasonable amount of time, but I got antsy anyway. I envisioned all the scenarios of how things could wrong. When I saw Saul, I knew that they had.

He was roughed up, and his crutch had scuffs on it—scratches from the asphalt. So, I knew he wasn't faking, or if he was faking, it was a masterful job. He had that terrified look in his eyes, like an animal caught in the road who doesn't know which way to run, so he freezes. He explained to me what happened, but he didn't need to. He got overpowered by an opportunistic middle man. What did I expect?

I wasn't as upset about the money as I was the lost contact. Now how were we going to find a hit man? I'd have to come up with another plan.

Saul, Sunday Morning, Day 5

It was time for us to pull up stakes in Albuquerque. Walt wasn't giving up on taking down Jack Welker. He just somehow thought it would be easy enough to do from Minneapolis. Didn't make much sense to me, since it had proved impossible to get done in Albuquerque. But I wasn't complaining. I was relieved to get out of the Land of Endangerment. Living under Walt's thumb was possibly better than facing the justice system. I don't know; it was debatable.

Ed had come up with a Chevy pick-up truck with a cap and California plates. He and Walt loaded up the back seat with our belongings, my matching suitcases which now seemed overly domestic and Walt's motley collection. Ed outfitted the back with an air mattress, a couple of sleeping bags, and a cooler with sandwiches and drinks. Walt and Ed had transferred the money into blue plastic bins—a lot less conspicuous than the barrel. They lined the back end of the truck bed with the bins. The truck was a mammoth, with an extended bed, but even so the money monopolized a good portion of the truck bed and I couldn't lie down full-length. My knee was a little better now but it was going to be one hell of a long 18 hours.

I used to love road trips. There was the inevitable mix tape that someone made just for that trip. The junk food and pops and Gatorade followed by beer at the hotel. The changing of the scenery. And the conversation. People go the damnedest places when confined in a small space for hours. But I had already experienced confinement with Walt for a couple days and he had said little other than to complain about the people who'd wronged him and discuss how he was going to wreak revenge. I often wondered if he thought I'd wronged him and I figured he did and my captivity was part of his revenge plot for me.

Ed didn't want either one of us to get out of the truck. For the whole 18 hours. But he gave us baseball caps and sunglasses just in case—a chance to see Walt in his D.B. Cooper get up again! I was reduced to finding joy in the smallest pleasures.

The cap had black-out windows, so we were able to get some idea of the passing scenery. By the time we got to Texas, it was already getting less desert-y. After all my heart-stopping desert escapades, I wasn't sad to see it go. It was hard, on the other hand, to let go of Saul Goodman. I had found my pace with him: the ultimate con game. But by playing Saul, I had alienated my only friend in Albuquerque—Kim—and now my every move put her risk. I didn't know how serious Walt's threats were. His main resource, his only resource, was his money. But that was a formidable weapon. Who did he have helping him? Who took the pictures? Dwelling on Albuquerque was too painful…

My thoughts turned to Minneapolis. What did I know about Minnesota? My family had taken some vacations in Wisconsin when I was a kid. Minnesota was pretty similar, right? The trees and lakes and funny accents. I thought I could do that accent, help me fit in better.

I would have to get a job; it would look too suspicious if I didn't. And I wasn't that hot—the Heisenberg lawyer was all. I didn't rate a headshot on CNN, thank God. Walt, on the other hand, couldn't leave the house.

"When we get to Minneapolis…" I started to say.

"White Bear Lake," Ed interrupted me, yelling over the highway sounds.

"Huh?" I asked, turning my head to hear him better through the pass through.

"White Bear Lake, it's a little town, a suburb, or exurb, of Minneapolis, or more accurately, St. Paul. You'll be living in White Bear Lake. In a little house on a quiet lane." Walt didn't seem to be listening to any of this.

"Walt…"

"Frank!" Ed interrupted again.

"Frank," I said awkwardly, "when we get to White Bear Lake, you're going to be a shut-in right?"

Walt gave me a pained look, like he hadn't thought about it, or like he'd been thinking about it too much. "Yeah," he said tentatively, leery of what was coming next.

"I was thinking about it. We could say that you have electromagnetic hypersensitivity."

"That's a phantom condition. Do you want to make out to be a lunatic?"

"No! This is not a commentary on _your_ mental stability. It's your character, right? You're playing a character. It would explain why you couldn't come outside. All I'd have to do is buy certain things. Like ice, I'd have to get ice everyday."

"Is this what's wrong with your brother?"

"Yeah."

"And you believe him?"

"I know the disease might not be real, but _he_ believes it. It's completely debilitating."

"Do you want to _debilitate_ me, Saul?" Walt squinted menacingly. I glanced up into the rearview and caught Ed's eyes. He was listening, but he wasn't about to correct Walt's usage of my name.

"No, I'm just trying to come up with a good cover. If we're going to make this work."

"Sorry, you're right," Walt was waving his hands around. "Your idea has merit. And it makes more sense for the brothers to live together if one was ill."

Should I have lived with Chuck to help him out? If I had, he would have figured that I was just being free-loader.

We rode in silence for another hour or so. The lack of conversation was driving me crazy. For one thing, I needed to know where Walt's head was at. And I was bored out of my mind, so much so that I was contemplating suggesting we play the license plate game. Instead I tried to strike up a conversation.

"So how did you meet Skyler? If you don't mind me asking."

There was a long pause, making me wonder if I'd overstepped some sacred boundary.

"Skyler worked at a diner while she was studying accounting. I used to go to lunch there when I was at Los Alamos."

"Wow, you were at Los Alamos? Why'd you leave?"

"Small minds. I used to come into that diner so _frustrated_ by the petty jealousies, the inane bureaucracy at the lab. Skyler would see my frustration and she would make me laugh. When it was my birthday she celebrated by writing out my age in bacon. She helped me survive Los Alamos."

"A bacon writer, huh?" It was a surprisingly quaint story, the part about Skyler anyway. I could imagine the falling out at Los Alamos; Walt doesn't seem the type to take direction.

"What about you and Kim?" Walt asked. I considered him carefully. Was it genuine curiosity or was he looking for ammunition? Walt and I were friends once, yes? Could we still be? Is that at least part of the reason he wants me to come along with him? I didn't want to get his hackles up, but I wasn't putting Kim in anymore danger despite the risks to me.

"We're not going to go there. Frank."

I got a steely stare from Walt. We were sitting next to each other, our backs against the wall of the cab, my left hand innocently resting between us. I had decided it wasn't broken, but it sure had a nasty sprain. Walt looked down and stared at that hand—his evil eye made the wrist hurt and I cradled it with my right hand and re-adjusted my knee, which had become cramped with tension.

Walt reached over and cupping the back of my head pulled me toward him. It was an odd gesture, more gentle than violent. But then, in an icy voice he said, "When I ask a question, _Saul_ , I expect an answer." He pushed my head back, ruffling my hair a bit like I was his little brother.

"Kim and I worked at the same law firm when I was first getting started," I explained, my voice cracking. "We both started in the mailroom. I guess I wooed her with my sense of humor and charm. It didn't last."

"She's a beautiful woman," Walt commented, as if to say 'of course it didn't last.' "You've remained friends?"

"Yeah." I wasn't about to tell Walt how much I cherished Kim. How she reminded me of the best of Jimmy McGill. Because of her, I kept a little piece of Jimmy's innocence and genuineness alive—that guy who sincerely tried when practicing elder law, who could connect with clients like he truly cared. I hadn't spoken to Kim much in the last couple of years. I know she didn't approve of Saul Goodman. There was the frosty phone call after the ads first went up. "I laughed my head off," she told me, "until I realized you were being serious."

Outside of Wichita, Ed reported that he was too tired to be driving in the megatropolis' rush hour. Walt looked at me long and hard, and announced "Sa… Paul will drive." I was about to protest. I didn't see how my knee could take it. But there would be other advantages, like a sense of freedom, no matter how illusory. Ed protested for me. "He can't do it with his knee—it's the right knee, yes? It's just a bad idea. You guys need to keep a low profile, how can I make you understand that? Let's give it ninety minutes so that I can rest up and the traffic can settle down."

"We need to make good time. Put New Mexico as far at our backs as possible and as fast as possible. Paul will drive. Take the next small turn-off. No gas stations, just wheat. You'll switch places there."

The driver's seat in the truck's cab sat up high which was a godsend. My legs weren't cramped like in a sedan where you sit on the floor. I'd be able to reposition my leg. I could even use the cruise control and straighten the leg.

A couple hours into driving I spotted a state trooper way in the back of a pack of cars. He appeared to have the light bar across the roof of his car, but it was too distant to see for sure. And one of those black bumpers for ramming things. He captivated my attention. For twenty minutes I was sensitive to every lane change, every turn of the head. He crept closer. It was definitely a cop. I wondered if I should mention this development to Ed, who was scrunched up trying to sleep in the back. Or, I could intentionally get us pulled over, but what would that accomplish?

"We've got company," Walt announced. He was keeping a vigil on the traffic. Walt held the gun up so that I could see it in the mirror. "Just keep it steady, right at the speed limit. Any funny business and I blow your head off. I'd rather die in a pile of twisted metal than face the electric chair." I was glad he clarified his position on the merits of blowing off my head. Keeping my head intact and out of jail seemed worthy causes. I checked that the cruise control was on 65 miles per hour and kept the truck dead center in the lane. The trooper passed us by without so much as a sidelong glance.

Walt, Sunday, Day 5

I didn't want to leave Albuquerque, but I figured my time was up. I wanted desperately to see Skyler and Walter Junior again—we had parted under such a black cloud. And I wanted to get my money back from Simon. In due time, I would accomplish all of these things.

Ed had proven to be a reliable man. He secured a Chevy Silverado for our journey, and I estimated it to be sufficiently low profile. Saul and I would sit in the bed; it was more comfortable than I' guessed, but it was close quarters.

After Saul generated some mind-numbing small talk, I turned to a more profitable topic.

"Let's do some brainstorming," I said.

"OK," Saul replied reluctantly.

"Problem: how to transfer millions of dollars in cash into spendable money. Ultimate goal: get the money to my family."

"First you need to launder the money, and for that you'd a multi-million dollar business. You've got what…" Saul paused waiting for me to fill in the number, I shook my head. "Say $10 million. If you want access to all of it, you're looking at a business that generates, say $65 million a year." I was perplexed that Saul knew about my money. Though he probably threw $10 million out there because it was easy number to calculate.

"Maybe Sky can launder the money if I could just get it to her."

"What are you going to do, ship her the barrel?"

"No, send her small boxes with really big denominations."

"Ehn…" Saul made a buzzer sound… "$100 is the largest denomination. You'd have to mail her dozens of boxes."

"What about putting the money into expensive objects: jewelry, art."

"You still have the problem of how you're going to get it to her. Her assets are probably frozen. That means everything, the house, the silverware, the cars."

"Her family?"

"All the same problems… you've just added a layer is all."

Saul was being helpful but he didn't seem to want to solve the problem, which was pissing me off. "What have you got, Saul? There must be a way."

"I'm telling you, Frank," he used the name awkwardly, like it was a strain to remember. Better he get used to it now… "there isn't a way. There's small stuff… like let her run up the credit card and then you can pay the bills, but it's fraught with danger. You'll blow your cover… our cover. And, again, all of the purchases would be subject to seizure. You could put some of it in a safe deposit box and give her access, but she couldn't get to that for years, until the heat was off of her. And if your cover gets blown, there goes the money."

"No, wait, that's good. What's the down side?" I asked, watching as a small group of motorcycles passed us by.

"Biggest problem is how are you going to get the box established… who are you going to get to do it? And then you can only get a fraction of the money in there. Even if you bought a couple of drawers, you could only get say a bin's worth in there. And then, like I said, if it's in your name, it only lasts as long as Frank Dobbs."

I didn't like Saul referring to my demise, mortal or otherwise. I stared at him long and hard. "You think I'm going somewhere."

"No offense, but, I'm just being trying to be realistic here. That's what you want, right? Practical advice? I think no matter what you do, the moment you take those bins out of the basement in White Bear Lake, the feds are going to sniff out that money and you and poof," he made two fists and splayed out his fingers in synchrony with the word, "your hard earned cash will be gone and we'll be up the creek and Skyler and your children will be none the richer. The ultimate outcome: you'll increase Skyler's odds of doing time for benefitting from a criminal enterprise."

Saul took a prescription bottle out of his pocket and popped a pill, chasing it down with a red Gatorade.

"Whatcha taking there, buddy?" I tried my damnedest to sound friendly, concerned. He didn't want to answer me, quickly returning the pills to his pocket. But I could see him calculating, my reaction to the Skyler/Kim stories having had the desired effect.

"Xanax," he said defensively.

"For anxiety?" I asked; he nodded. The glimmerings of a plot began to form in my mind.


	3. Fargo

Saul, Monday, Day 6

We arrived in White Bear Lake in the dead of night. The house was on a street of sad houses and it looked to be the saddest of the lot. It was old and sort of decrepit, with what appeared to be grey shingles as siding. Charming.

Ed got to work unloading our things with Walt's assistance. Once the truck was cleared out, Ed said he'd be on his way. He had given us instructions about the rent, the landlord, a little bit about the town. Walt had agreed to the electromagnetic hypersensitivity cover, so we'd asked Ed to stop for candles and candle holders at a 24 hour Walmart. Lit by candle light, the old house felt pretty creepy. It was furnished, but everything had the smell of stale beer and other unsavory odors. Ed had explained that renters were usually students from the nearby community college. And now there would be two middle age men shacking up like Felix and Oscar... I'd have to somehow get the word out that we were brothers.

Walt and I started exploring the house, Walt moving much quicker than me through the rooms. A spacious living room/ dining room dominated the first floor. The kitchen, off the dining room, was small and utilitarian, painted a puke green. The front door entered into the living room. There was also a back door in the kitchen leading from the detached garage. The house had four bedrooms, the largest of which was upstairs along with one spare bedroom. Two cramped bedrooms were on the main level. I hadn't even made it upstairs yet when Walt declared, "I'll let you have the big bedroom. Upstairs." It couldn't be because he was being magnanimous. It must have to do with wanting to control my movement. After all, it would be much easier for me to slip away in the night if I was on the first floor and he was on the second. But I was already going to be out and about in the daytime...

If I wanted to flee, I could just do it then. But I wasn't planning to. I didn't take Walt's threats about Kim and Chuck all that seriously, but I couldn't risk it. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if anything happened to Kim. And anyway what kind of life would I be fleeing to? Deep cover in Omaha? I didn't even know if I could afford a new identity from Ed. I hadn't had a chance to count the money to see how much Walt had paid Ed for helping him abduct me. The tote bag sure felt lighter.

We were both exhausted from the long trip. It had been hard to sleep in the truck, and we'd been on the road for twenty hours. "I'm going to hit the hay," Walt announced. "Do you need help with your suitcases?"

"I do," I told him, relieved and a little surprised for the help.

Upstairs in my new bedroom, just one task occupied me before crashing: counting my money to see how much Walt had pilfered. I had squirreled away $1.4 million to bring with me into my new life. I discovered my hard-won gains had been whittled down to just over a million dollars. Since Walt had designated $100,000 for the down payment to Simon, this meant that Ed's loyalty had been bought for $250,000. It's chilling to know the exact amount of the price on your head. I cursed Walt, and Ed, before climbing into bed where I fell into a deep sleep.

Walt, Tuesday Morning, Day 7

I woke Saul up around 8:30am to administer my chemo. Somehow Ed had been able to procure the supplies and medicine for my chemotherapy. It was part of the reason I was such a complicated client, that and how badly I'm wanted by the authorities.

Saul helped me get everything set up in the living room. I sat on a nasty light blue velvet chair. It was open-armed and had ostentatiously carved arms and legs. It looked like the owner had procured his furniture from a variety of rummage sales. A brown faux leather chair sat adjacent to my chair and a prim sofa sat across from the chairs. The sofa had a greenish hue in the flickering candlelight. In between sat a beat-up black coffee table, the kind you assemble yourself. Particle board peeked out from a dent in the wood.

The first step in the chemo process was that Saul had insert a catheter into the back of my hand. Most people don't like it when a professional sticks them—try a washed up lawyer. His hands were shaky. I slapped him lightly and said, "There. Now I've hit you. Don't worry about poking me more than once. Just get it done."

Once he calmed down, I was surprised by the work Saul did with the needle. He stuck me only a couple of times trying to get the catheter set up and the drip worked right away.

"Good job," I told him. I sounded like I was speaking to a dog. He smiled obligingly. "Now get me those newspapers," I said referring to papers Ed had bought at our last stop: USA Today and the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. He handed me the papers and started to walk away. "No," I said. "Stay here in case I need something." I wanted to discuss our plans, but my first priority was to check the news.

Without internet or TV, USA Today was the best way to keep up with the national news. I perused the front page and then checked the state news for New Mexico. It was an item about genetically modified food. My case had to be more newsworthy, but I was thankful for the lack of coverage. A quick scan of the entire paper revealed nothing about me at all. I needed the Albuquerque Journal. Saul was reading the local paper and once I had read through everything of interest in the USA Today, we switched. Judging from the stories and ads, all these Minnesotans cared about was fish, winter and beer.

It was early October and the weather was in the 50s. I was glad we'd have a burn in period before the onslaught of winter. I was glad too that the house had gas heat so that we could run the furnace without blowing the electromagnetic hypersensitivity cover. It was a good idea Saul had. If I was being really punctilious about it, the thermostat sent an electric pulse to the furnace; but I wasn't going to obsess over this detail and I was fairly certain Saul wouldn't think of it.

"What's on the docket for tomorrow?" I asked him.

"Job search," he replied.

"Get me a smart phone," I told him. Ed had given us each a credit card under our new names. "Hell, get two phones." It wasn't that I trusted him with a phone, it was the inevitability of his access to one.

"Ehn. Bad idea. I can't even count the ways that a smart phone could get us into trouble."

"I need CNN, Saul. If the feds are about to knock on the door, I want to know about it." I gestured with my free hand to emphasize the point.

"If the feds figure out you're… we're in Minnesota, they're gonna keep that to themselves until they have us in custody. They're not going to blather it all over the news."

"I want a Galaxy," I told him.

"It's your funeral," he muttered.

"Also, pick up a chess game and a deck of cards."

"I don't play chess… if you're thinking of playing with me…"

"You'll learn. I'll teach you. Go to the bookstore and get a beginner's book for you and then one that has classic problems for me. Get two chess boards."

"Sounds like fun," he quipped.

Saul, Wednesday Morning, Day 8

Ed had given me a map of town. It was one of those stylized numbers that had drawings of the key landmarks and said "Welcome to White Bear Lake" in arching block letters. I could see that it would be a long walk to the library—about twelve blocks. Doable if I was in good condition. But since I wasn't, I walked a block and a half to the nearest convenience store and called for a cab.

I was ecstatic to be out of the house and away from Walt. I felt myself relaxing as I sat down in the cab. It was a beautiful fall morning. The trees were changing colors and were brilliant against a blue sky: bright yellows, reds and oranges. It was sinking in that Albuquerque was in the past and I was starting to feel good about being out of there. No more walking into my office and thinking 'this will be the day the feds darken my doorstep.'

I had the taxi drop me off at a Walgreen's. My first order of business was to downgrade to a cane. They had a robust selection-must be a lot of cane users in White Bear Lake. I was attracted to an orange one, but settled on black, the most inconspicuous. I deposited my crutch in a dumpster and set off to the library, a block and a half a way.

At the library I was disappointed to learn you needed a library card in order to use the computers. I stifled an impulse to lecture them about public access laws, donned a smile, and dutifully filled out the form to get my card. The extra scrutiny had a chilling effect on my search choices. I had desperately wanted to look at the news, but decided against it. Instead I kept to local interests.

The job situation was pretty dismal and I felt lucky that I just needed a job, any job, and not an income. A particularly good job would have a cash component to the pay, so a bartender job looked promising. There was also Starbucks, a factory job, something right there at the library, and a movie theatre projectionist. I was most intrigued by the projectionist. I didn't have much experience for any of these: but I had done a little bit of bartending when I was in college and I had worked at a movie theatre in high school. Not impressive credentials. Paul Dobbs' experience wasn't that helpful. Mostly experience as a machine operator, and I wasn't about to try my hand at that; with my luck, my hand would end up in the machine. I printed a few maps and headed over to the Best Buy.

Walt, Wednesday Morning, Day 8

The next morning I was bone-tired, my body wracked from the chemo. I wasn't interested in breakfast. I slept in. Saul was gone when I got up, so I decided to make a thorough inventory of the house, starting with Saul's room. I saw that he hadn't had time to unpack. Nonetheless, I did a search of the room to see if he stashed away anything of importance. I found nothing. The last person to occupy this room must have been fastidious. It was much cleaner than the rest of the house. My own bedroom was dusty and had given me a coughing attack the night before.

I checked Saul's suitcases—mostly clothes and some papers, a couple of DVDs (Monty Python and Rear Window) and a couple of books (Atlas Shrugged and Catcher in the Rye). In a suitcase, otherwise full of clothes, I found a box a bit larger than a shoe box. It contained some photographs. One photo had Saul and Kim at a backyard barbecue. Saul was wearing one of those idiotic "Kiss the Chef" aprons. There was also a family photo. His brother appeared to be a good ten years older than Saul. Also in the box were his passport and birth certificate and other important documents, some dinero, and most curiously, a VHS video tape.

In his shaving kit I found what I was after: the Xanax. He had stockpiled before disappearing. Three bottles supplied by three different doctors. I opened one bottle—it was a standard pharmacy bottle with no safety seal. The pills were purplish-blue in color and oval in shape. One side said "Xanax 1.0" and the other had a vertical score down the middle. I put one pill into a quart-sized ziploc bag and slipped it in my pocket and then returned everything the way it was.

Next I went to the basement. The junk there had a certain order to it, roughly grouped by the college students who'd left it there, it would seem. There were books everywhere, which seemed wasteful given the steep cover price of text books. I remember how precious each of my books was to me back in the day. These kids seemed to have parents with wide open pocket books which suggested that living at 632 Beaver Lane was a real luxury for a Century College student.

I wasn't interested in the books, although the chemistry text caught my eye: Chemistry: The Science of Change, 13th Edition. I hate that book. Ritnow and Carter were small minded pricks who screwed me over. I was to have been a co-author on the first edition, but some differences of opinion dampened my contributions. They dropped me, but kept the work I had already done. $65 for a used copy. I should have sued them.

In one pile of stuff, I found what I was looking for: a VCR, complete with remote taped to the side. It appeared to be in good working order. In another pile, I found a stack of Playboys. And in yet another pile I found a small tube TV: perfect.

I hit the motherlode when I came across some old 2x4s. They had the characteristic green tint of processed wood. These would come in handy, but for now I left them where they lay. I would also need some foil. I grabbed the Playboys and headed upstairs to search the kitchen.

The kitchen was also rich with the rejects of fickle college students: mismatched kitchen ware, tupperware, even food. I spotted my foil, but I also chanced upon something else of interest: rat poisoning. I put on a pair of gloves, located a gallon plastic zip bag and transferred the contents of the box into the bag. I carefully sealed the bag. Next, I boiled some water and made some Minute Rice. The box of rice looked pretty old, but I didn't care about the expiration date. I had found some food coloring in one of the cupboards so I added green, blue and a little bit of black to the boiling rice. The resulting color was close to what I'd removed from the box. Once the rice was dry and cool, I had a reasonable counterfeit of the rat poisoning. I filled the box with rice and put it back where I found it in the cupboard. I saw that the box had created a void in the dust so I was able to return the poison to the exact same spot. Now, if Saul tried to poison me, he'd just be feeding me old blue rice. I placed the actual poison in a box of text books in the basement as a temporary hiding place.

It was 10:30. I had maybe an hour before Saul came home for lunch. We'd agreed that he would do some preliminary research at the library and bring me a list of job openings for us to consider together. I wasn't at all comfortable with him running around in the world, so I was going to keep him on a tight leash.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 8

Saul came back around 12:30. I was relieved to see him. The fact hadn't escaped me that if he was going to flee he'd do it right away.

He had with him two Galaxies and a list of job possibilities. I favored the machinist job.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Saul explained. "When they find out I don't know what the hell I'm doing, it hurts the Paul Dobbs cover. This is a small town." He had a point; he usually did. The guy came across like a weasel, but he was a smart weasel.

"OK, then the projectionist," I said. I brought a bowl of soup and a BLT sandwich to the table and told Saul to get his own. It took him two trips; I noticed he now had a cane. "I'd think the projectionist job is low profile… you'd be spending most of your time in the booth?"

"That'd be my guess-locked up in an attic like Emily Dickinson. The description isn't very informative. I have a little bit of experience, you know. Just a high school thing, but I've threaded a projector before."

"Then the projectionist it is... What's the town like?"

"Spread out. There's a quaint downtown, but not a lot happening there. There are big box stores out by the highway. Your basic Mom and Pop killers: Walmart, Target, Best Buy. There's actually a lake called White Bear Lake and it's huge. Back in the day this used to be resort town, so it has a vacation-y feel. Very Minnesota," he made his "o" long. I didn't know what he meant by 'very Minnesota,' but it didn't matter. I could be in Timbuktu, or Belize…

"You've spent time here before?" I asked.

"A little bit, fishing and camping as a kid up in the boundary waters. But I spent a lot of time in Wisconsin," again he pronounced the "o" funny, kind of like a Canadian. "Where are you from?" Saul asked.

I paused and considered him. I didn't like Saul asking personal questions, anything that could be used against me. At the same time, what were we going to talk about if I shut down every avenue of conversation? It seemed innocent enough… "California," I replied, and before he could ask 'where' I added, "north of L.A."

"And you came to New Mexico to be a Los Alamos egghead?"

I nodded. I didn't like that he was fitting together puzzle pieces even though they seemed benign.

Saul cleared our plates, thanked me for lunch and said he'd be off on his job search. He was wearing Dockers, a blue dress shirt, a pair of brown loafers and a light jacket. Not what I think of as job hunting attire, but I guess Saul was searching in a different strata. "On second thought, let me grab a tie. Dress for success and all that…" he said as if he could read my mind.

Saul, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 8

My first stop was a used car lot. I'd been thinking about it all day. There was just no good way to get around this town without a car. Hell, I couldn't even get to the potential employers. And, if I got a job, I'd have to take a cab, at least until my knee improved. The cab rides would take a fair portion of my day's earnings. That just wouldn't make sense to an observer. Likewise, the grocery store was seven blocks. The town was just too spread out and it didn't have public transportation. It just wasn't practical not to have a car and it would draw unwanted attention.

I had grabbed some cash when I was home at lunch and I figured I could get something passable for around two grand. I chose a dark green 1996 Ford Ranger. Not my first choice, but it possessed the virtue of comparatively low miles. I didn't need the thing breaking down in the middle of winter. I didn't think about Walt's reaction; I figured he'd see the car as inevitable. I was wrong.


	4. There Will Be Blood

Saul, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 8

After the car dealer, my next stop was the movie theatre. The smell of freshly popped popcorn overwhelmed the place and filled me with nostalgia. I remembered some of my favorite movie-going experiences, _Jaws, The Blues Brothers, Star Wars_ …

"Can I _help_ you?" a voice was asking, pulling me out of my reverie. I had walked right past the cashier/ticket taker and she was a little miffed. She was good looking: a black woman with short wavy hair, sassy and bright. She wasn't really my type—well, she wasn't Saul Goodman's type—but maybe she was Paul Dobbs' type?

I limped back over to her. Her name badge said 'Taryn'. She sat in one of those old-fashioned ticket booths that protruded from the building. "Hello, Taryn," I said, rhyming it with 'Karen.' "I'm here about the projectionist job." She gave me the old up and down, lingering for a moment on my leg as if its condition had any bearing on my ability to be a projectionist.

"Projection booth's upstairs, you know," she finally said.

"Oh, that's okay. My knee's only sprained—almost better." I stood on my bad leg and did a little 'ta da' with my arms, passing the cane dramatically from hand to hand. It hurt a lot but I smiled instead of wincing.

She laughed and reached into a drawer, producing a piece of paper and a clipboard. "Here's an application, Mr.?"

"Dobbs. Paul Dobbs." It sounded awkward, like I was trying it on, and for a second I hesitated, like my cover had been blown.

"I'll call the…" I began to panic, "…manager," she said. "Don't worry. She's a pushover. You've already passed the hardest part of the applicant screening process," she said pointing to herself and mouthing 'me.'

I sat down on a bench and started filling in the information that I memorized from Paul Dobbs' biography, plus some details of my own. I pulled out my driver's license to write down the number. I was no longer that guy in the picture that Ed had taken. My beard was starting to come in and my hair looked markedly different after Ed's ruthless haircut. About the only things that remained the same were my sideburns and a haunted look in my eyes. As I was still working on the application a young lady approached me. She was in her early twenties, wearing khaki slacks and a white blouse with the movie theatre logo on it.

"Hi, I'm Lacey," she said in a breezy manner. "You're a projectionist?" She said hopefully.

"At your service," I replied, standing up and trying to be nonchalant about my knee which was now throbbing after my stupid little dance move. "Paul Dobbs," I said, offering my hand.

She showed me back to a cramped office that brought up unpleasant memories of my office in the nail salon. Three movie posters overpowered the tiny room: _The Hunger Games, Silver Linings Playbook_ , and _12 Years a Slave_.

"So where were you a projectionist?"

"Actually, I threaded the projector… back in Milwaukee. Two years when I was in high school. It's been awhile, but I figure it's like riding a bicycle, right?"

"Yeah, and you can fall off." I laughed—I liked her sense of humor. I knew what she meant. I'd see movies played upside down. And backwards. In fact my experience threading was minimal: maybe a dozen times over one summer. My real expertise came from helping Don, the alcoholic projectionist, get out of jams. I could fix the film when it was out of frame. Or upside and backwards.

"Well, I need a projectionist."

"Look, I was the head usher and the primary threader," I lied. "We didn't have a full-time projectionist."

"Can you handle brain wrap?"

"So, you have a platter system? Sure." Again I manipulated the truth. I had helped Don untangle a few brain wraps. I mean, I knew what they were at least; how many people walking down the street even know that brain wraps exist?

If they had a platter system, I don't even know why they needed a full-time projectionist. Platters meant no reel-changeovers. Nothing to do while the movie was playing. So it was ten, fifteen minutes of hustle between shows to get the films threaded and then nothing for more than an hour. God, I needed this job.

"Let's continue our conversation up in the booth," Lacey said. The stairs to the projection booth were right outside the office. We traipsed up the dank stairwell to the darkened booth. Lacey turned on a small work light by one of the projectors. "Go ahead and thread the film, Paul."

I stared at the thing like it had a gun on me. Walt and I had agreed that this was the job; if I didn't get it, I risked pissing him off. "This one's pretty different from the projectors back in Milwaukee," I hedged.

"It's like a bicycle," Lacey reminded me.

I took ahold of the film leader and made what I believed was a passable effort.

"Close," she said. "You missed the sound head." I saw what she meant.

"Oh, this is a talkie?" I asked with mock surprise. I slackened the film and unthreaded then rethreaded it around the head.

"Perfect," she said. I sighed audibly. "When can you start?"

The next day was Thursday. They would have their change-overs that night: taking apart the films that were leaving, assembling the incoming films. "I can start tomorrow. You've got tear downs and assemblies, yeah?"

"Yes. That would be great! I'm going to go crazy if I have to work another Thursday night in the booth. Did I mention that we watch all the films?"

"What?"

"After the new film is assembled, we play it to make sure it's together right."

"Makes sense," I agreed, silently bemoaning the fact that I had just signed up to work deep into the nights on Thursday— 3 maybe 4am. But what did it matter? I didn't have anything else to be doing, except playing legal counsel/housewife to a lunatic.

"So the workweek is Wednesday through Sunday. Sound good?"

"It does," I replied, thinking that it would be good to get away from Walt on Friday and Saturday nights. Though all of our days would basically be the same, there would have been something particularly depressing about being alone with him on weekends.

Saul, Wednesday Evening, Day 8

I pulled the truck up to the garage and parked it there on the driveway. I had a teenager's giddy excitement over the truck. It would be a little bit of freedom… and the possibility of an escape.

I guess Walt also saw it as being about freedom and escape.

"What the hell is that?!" Walt yelled at me the moment I came in the door.

"It's wheels to get around town. Do you know how spread out this place is… with no public…" He clocked me right in the eye. I was flattened on the floor, the groceries that I'd been carrying scattered everywhere. Walt loomed over me, straddling me. He punched me a couple of more times, in the mouth and the cheek bone. I was yelling for him to stop. "Not the face, Walt…" I sputtered.

"Frank!" he corrected me with a left hook to my jaw.

"Frank, not the face! I got a job…"

He started coughing and I wriggled away. Slowly he got to his feet, the coughing calming down. He obliged my request with a couple of swift kicks to the ribs. Now _I_ was coughing and fighting for air.

"What's this job?" he asked, as if he hadn't just mauled me.

My mouth was full of blood and I was disoriented. My head pounded. "The movie theatre," I mumbled.

"Excellent. Our first choice. That should be a good cover."

I was still laid out on the floor, and with all my injuries, past and present, I was having trouble getting up. Walt stepped over and offered me a hand like we were some kind of teammates.

"What the hell was that? You kicked the crap out of me."

"Because you don't seem to get it. We _talk_ about things before you do them. _We_ make agreements. Like with your job search, you did the right thing consulting me. You work for _me_ , Saul. I don't want you so much as taking a piss without asking for permission," Walt paused. "There will be consequences for this transgression."

I was leaning against the kitchen counter now, clutching my side. Blood was trickling down from a cut above my eye, soiling one of maybe three dress shirts I had to my name. "What do you mean consequences? Weren't there already consequences?" I asked, indicating my face.

Walt was walking away, and I thought the conversation was over, but he came right back with a first aid kit. It must have been something that had come with the house. An ancient metal box, not plastic. I thought I saw rust around the edges. Walt started fishing through the box, taking a couple of things out.

"Do you have first aid supplies? Peroxide?" Walt asked me.

"No, but what's that?" I said about the first aid kit. "Something from the temple of Karnak?"

He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the spilled groceries and told me to sit at the table. Using gauze and the vodka, he cleaned my wounds. He seemed most worried about the cut over my eye.

"This one's bad," he said, weirdly concerned about an injury he'd inflicted himself. "I think it needs stitches."

"Christ, no. It can't be that bad."

"If cleaning up your face requires some patching up, then that's what we have to do. I don't want you walking around looking like a washed up prize fighter."

"Then don't punch me!"

Walt saturated my eyebrow with vodka. It stung like Hell. "Hang on just a second," I told Walt. I grabbed the vodka and took a healthy swig. He did the same. He took out a needle and some thread, doused both in alcohol and then proceeded to make the first pass with the needle. I flinched, but did my best to hold steady. Walt rubbed my arm. Then he started the back and forth process of sewing the cut together. Next he took a tube of bacitracin and slathered the gel over the stitches. It was cold and reeked of medicine. The tube appeared to be unused, thank God.

"Now, how could we have avoided all this?" he asked in his most teacherly tone, putting a hand on my thigh.

If I had gone to Nebraska… I thought wistfully. "Communication," I answered with a bitterness I hoped he didn't perceive. "I'll take the truck back tomorrow."

"No, keep it. It will be useful and it sounds like you need it to get around. How is your knee, by the way? I see you switched to using a cane."

This was a trick question. If I said it was good then he'd worry about other ways of controlling me. So I said it was worse than it was.

I took a Xanax, chasing it with another swig of vodka. "Are there any painkillers in there?"

"No, but I have a supply." Walt left to get me some ibuprofen. I made up a bag of ice and took it to the couch.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 8

After we had lunch I napped and took it easy; my body felt like it had been bulldozed from the previous day's chemo. At around 6:30pm, I heard a car pulling into the driveway. I assumed Saul had gotten a ride from someone. I peaked out the window and to my surprise Saul was driving an old pickup truck. I was already annoyed by the lateness of the hour, so I flipped out when I saw the truck. I couldn't believe his nerve— _purchasing a car?!— without discussing it with me first_? I didn't have him under sufficient control. Some twist of fate would need to befall Chuck or Kim.

When he walked in the door, I pummeled him. He collapsed to the floor and I kept pummeling him. I really lost my temper. I think I would have put him in the hospital if the assault wasn't aborted by a coughing attack. When I caught my breath, he was still on the floor, writhing and moaning, so I gave him a few kicks in the gut for bringing on my coughing fit. I was satisfied to see _him_ gasping for air.

I started to simmer down. I don't know why I had gotten so out of control mad. I had hurt him, and that was stupid. I needed to intimidate and control him, yes. Breaking his will would take it too far. I switched to helping mode; that would keep him guessing as to whom he was dealing with.


	5. Cinema Paradiso

Walt, Thursday Morning, Day 9

The following day, Saul started his job. He said the quick start would earn him bonus points with his new manager. He'd explained in mind-numbing detail how Thursdays were the end of the movie theatre week and this entailed a lot of extra work, what with the old films leaving and new films coming. I wondered at his efforts to impress his boss at such an insignificant job. It's not like we needed the money, only the veneer of normalcy—someone in the house should be working.

What disturbed me most is that I had no way of knowing that Saul actually had a job. I only knew about the job, and for that matter, every other detail about the town, _from Saul_. And he was, as the say in literature, an unreliable narrator.

Saul, Thursday Morning, Day 9

I started up the Ranger and made my way along residential streets crowded with homes built in the 40s. I thought about the previous night and Walt's bizarre love/hate behavior. While I could understand Walt's reaction to the truck, over-the-top as it was, his playing nurse was downright creepy. He must have been screwing with me.

But what was I thinking, purchasing the truck? I had acted like a willful teenager, testing the boundaries. Walt's response was a painful lesson in where those borders lay. My face had taken a beating and it was going to be hard to explain. Hell, it might even scare Lacey off all together.

I approached the old theatre from the back alley, walking past a dumpster that reminded me of where Marco had died. I wondered if he could see me now, and if so what he must think of me going to work in a movie theatre. He'd probably wonder what my angle was. The truth of it was, I had none. My ambition to thrive had literally been beat out of me over the past two weeks. A shell of my former self, my game had been reduced to just surviving day-to-day.

I came to a side door of the theatre and pounded, as Lacey had instructed. It took her a couple of minutes to get to the door; she was probably off in the far reaches of the cavernous building. She was taken aback by my appearance, though I tried to improve the overall impression by wearing a tie with a dress shirt and Dockers. But my clothes couldn't hide the evidence of Walt's wrath. "What the hell happened?" she said as she chained up the door behind me.

"I'm sorry. I know this doesn't look good. It's my brother, he has mental issues. He doesn't know what he's doing…" I followed her up to the projection booth.

"I expect bruises from the ushers. Half of them are gang-bangers. But I thought you'd be reliable, boring even…"

"I am reliable. I'm here. I can do this job. I'll be boring, too, if that's what you want. My brother is a shut-in and he's mentally unstable; he didn't mean to hurt me."

"OK. Why don't you thread them up and I'll double check everything. Each projector is a little bit different."

After threading, we filled out the new hire paperwork. I had brought Paul Dobbs' birth certificate and social security card and was relieved when the documents passed muster. Nor did Lacey comment on my driver's license photo—snapped by Ed the first day of my disappearance—which portrayed Saul Goodman, fugitive, and not Paul Dobbs, projectionist.

After the paperwork, Lacey gave me a tour of the building. I was relieved for the distraction and enjoyed the Art Deco stylings on generous display throughout the building. The theatre had boasted one large auditorium back in the day but somewhere along the way some owner had cut up the big house into three auditoriums. More recently, the building next door had been acquired and a fourth screen added. The theatre had just over 1200 seats total. It was too bad to see the classic building cut up and jig-sawed back together, but economics had surely been the motive. In fact, I couldn't see how any theatre could survive in this little town.

When I asked, Lacey dug out a manual for one of the projectors. I spent the afternoon reading the manual and studying each of the projectors. I'm not sure why I was putting so much effort into getting the job right. I think I just wanted to get immersed in something besides being a hostage on-the-lam. Plus, I genuinely liked the movie theatre and the business of movies.

I found the projection booth to be a soothing retreat. The flickering of the films in the projectors caused colored lights to dance on the walls. The gears moving through the sprockets emitted a reassuring clicking sound. The booth temperature was set low to create the right environment for the delicate film. It felt good to be there, safe and secure. And simple.

But the booth was also a mess, so I set about cleaning it. By the time evening rolled around, you could have delivered a baby in that place. Lacey seemed impressed. "The films are here," she came to tell me. Considering my leg she asked, "Will you be able to bring the films upstairs?" They came in heavy canisters containing three to four reels each.

"Not yet, I'm afraid. Maybe next week?"

"OK. I'll get someone to bring them up. Are you hungry? We're putting in an order at Mickey's… not Mickey D's, don't worry," she added when she saw the sour look on my face. "There's a menu on the desk in the office."

I had three films to assemble and three films to 'tear down'. I vaguely knew how to do it: the assemblies involved splicing together the individual reels to make one gigantic reel that laid on its side on the platter. Tearing down was just undoing the process. Lacey had given me a quick refresher, but the problem was that I never really knew how to do it in the first place, so a refresher was a bit over my head. I'd seen the projectionist do it a couple of times back at my high school job. The thing was that you had to spin the film on at extremely fast speeds, all the while keeping the slack just right or else the fragile film would snap, and then quickly splinter if you didn't get the motor off. Lose enough frames and you'd get a jump in the action, disturbing the continuity of the film.

I'd been reading the manual, and that helped a little. But despite my legal background, I wasn't much of a book learner. I had to feel my way into something physical, develop the muscle memory for it. Just as I was breaking _Linsanity_ for a third time, Daunte, one of the ushers, showed up in the booth. He was a tall black kid, and unlike some of the other employees I had seen, his maroon usher's jacket was clean, his white button down shirt crisp.

"Um, hey," he said.

"Hey," I replied. "What's up?"

"Can I watch?" he asked.

"The movie? Oh, sure. It will be ready in about twenty minutes."

"No. Um, I mean, watch you put together the show."

I didn't need an audience for my ineptitude, but there was something disarming about the kid. I let him stay, and I found that while chatting with him I relaxed. The film did not break again.

As each of the outgoing films finished playing, I had to undo the assembly process, finding the splice between the reels and returning the film to canisters for delivery back to the distributor, or on to the next movie house.

Besides shreading a film by breaking it, a couple of things could go very wrong with the whole process. A reel could be upside down if some schmo had screwed up. Or, the reels could be out of order. The later was a bit harder to detect, necessitating that each film be watched fairly closely. You had to follow the plotlines to make sure everything was together right. Playing all the new movies added several hours on to an already long night.

I moved back and forth from task to task, checking on movies, tearing down film. I enjoyed the tactile nature of working with the movies. I liked cutting the film and splicing it back together. There was something so peaceful about it and something so utterly different from my previous life of threats out in the desert, drugs, guns. It was even a respite from fevered searches through newspapers and anxiety-provoking CNN watching.

Walt, Thursday Afternoon, Day 9

I took a nap after lunch. I was still wiped out from the chemo, and beating Saul had taken more energy than I really had. Plus my hand felt, and looked, like raw meat. That little creep.

Now it was time for a bit of shopping. I took out my gleaming new phone and the credit card that Ed had procured for me. Next I removed from my pocket the ziploc bag that contained the Xanax I'd lifted from Saul. I carefully studied its shape and color. Going on-line, I located a website proferring the supplies to make your own vitamins. Here I found a pill-press that could roughly mimic the shape of a Xanax and the binder to hold my ingredients together. Next I went to a chemistry site and ordered colorant: red and blue. Finally, I purchased a padlock to provide privacy for my other acquisitions. Once all of that was accomplished, my curiosity overwhelmed me and I went up to Saul's bedroom to retrieve his video tape.

I took it down to the basement, blacked out the windows with some cardboard, set up the old VCR and TV, and sat down for the big reveal. It was a reel of his "Better Call Saul" commercials: those asinine, boorish ads that would destroy the tranquility of late night TV viewing. Once I knew Saul, I had assumed the ads were all part of an elaborately constructed persona. But now I wondered, could it be that he actually took pride in this drivel? I cringed for him. I fast-forwarded through the entire tape to make sure there wasn't anything hidden on it. No, the whole tape was full of over-the-top non-sense: buxom blondes arresting hapless drunks, long lists of people to sue, Saul crying alligator tears over the Wayfarer accident…

I went back upstairs and returned the tape to the box, but not as I found it. I deliberately put the tape on top of the pile of photos. And I took the passport and birth certificate. Not that he would be able to use the Saul Goodman identity ever again, but I would stop him from trying, or even fantasizing about trying. I couldn't wait until he confronted me about the tape, though somehow I doubted he would.

Walt, Thursday Night, Day 9

Saul came home in the middle of the night—it was after 4:00am. I was sitting there waiting in the blue velvet chair, with the candles flickering. He flinched when he noticed me there.

"Do you want a beer? I'm having a beer," he said, heading for the refrigerator.

I was noticing a trend—he always came home later than he said he would. I knew that tonight it wouldn't have been under his control and that he probably hadn't known when he'd be home. But that didn't stop me from giving him crap about it. I approached the kitchen. In my bare feet, I didn't make much noise and again I startled him.

"Jesus," he said and then held out a beer.

"No, Saul." I crowded in to him so that he couldn't move between me and the refrigerator door. "I noticed that you're late tonight."

"Oh, come on. I didn't know what time I'd be home."

"You're always late. When you tell me a time, I expect you to be here. Got it?"

"Got it," he replied, his hand reaching into his pocket for his pills. I backed away and we returned to the living room.

"Now explain to me again why you have to be there so late on Thursday nights," this because I hadn't paid attention the first time he'd told me. Again, he went through the details ad nauseam. "And tell me about your new movies."

I made him describe the plots, but also individual scenes. I probed, pushing him to go into great detail; I wanted to verify that he actually watched the movie and not just the trailer, that he actually worked at a movie theatre and that it wasn't all some elaborate fabrication. Saul's storytelling was mesmerizing—he _weaved_ a tale and took great care in its telling. But I got frustrated when he missed a scene because he had moved on to some other task.

"Next week I want you to tell me what films you're getting before Thursday. Then we'll decide which one you'll watch in its entirety."

He sighed, but nodded his agreement. "I'm going to have to start charging you admission."


	6. Proof

Saul, Friday Afternoon, Day 10

The twelve o'clock shows all ran smoothly, and I have to say I was proud of my work. I had cleared the hurdle of one of the most difficult tasks of the projectionist role. It was just another con, really, walking into some job I had never done before and knocking it out like I knew what I was doing.

As I was threading for the four o'clock shows, thoughts of Walt weaseled their way into my brain. The night before had been weird. Walt was sitting up waiting for me like I was his daughter coming home from a first date. And the interrogation about my day… I guess I can't blame him too much. He only has my word for it that I'm working at a movie theatre. For all he knows, I could be spending my days at the local DEA office, detailing every move, every transaction over the last five years. Hell, if the idea of prison didn't frighten me so much, I would be in the local DEA office.

I went to a large pegboard where the trailers hung. I found the trailer for emCaptain Phillips/em and cut out a section of film, about three frames of Tom Hanks. With this I would show Walt incontrovertible evidence of my occupation. Then I snapped a selfie with one of the projectors. I suppose it would have been possible that I simply photoshopped myself on to a picture of a projector. But if Walt knew anything about my computer skills, he'd know that a hundred monkeys with typewriters could have done it faster. I knew about things you emcould/em do on a computer, not emhow/em to do them.

At around 6pm the crew for the evening started to arrive. Taryn, the scrutinizing cashier, gave me a hug when I offered my hand to shake. "Congratulations on the new job, Paul, and welcome!" she said, embracing me lightly. Surprised, I reacted like Ted Baxter in the opening credits of emMary Tyler Moore/em. What a dope. A pretty girl hugs me and I act put out.

"Thanks, I'm excited to be here," was my pathetic attempt at a recovery.

While Taryn was maybe 40, the rest of the staff were all kids in high school and college: Daunte, Sasha, Irina, Carlos and Oliver. It was like the United Nations. At 6:30 a beefy guy wearing a Security windbreaker strolled in. Taryn introduced us; he was Craig, an off-duty police officer. Suddenly my job didn't feel so ideal anymore.

I looked him hard in the eye as we shook hands. I had to see if there'd be a trace of recognition when he saw my face.

There wasn't. Instead he said, "Whoa, Paul, looks like you went a few rounds and lost," He was a loud talker with a deep Minnesoh-ta accent.

"It's my brother," I said softly. "He's mentally unstable, a shut-in actually."

"A real head case, huh?" Craig responded, still loud. Taryn was selling tickets; I hoped she couldn't hear us. "What's he got, schizophrenia? Lots of recluses are schizophrenic."

"No. He just gets angry and sometimes he gets a little out of control. This is the worst it's been. Won't happen again."

"Sounds like it's getting worse. You need to give a call to 911 when that kind of thing happens. We'll help you explain to your brother that he can't be pounding on ya. Maybe let him cool his feet in the tank."

"It's not gonna happen again. I'm working on getting him in to see a doctor. Maybe some meds'll help."

I blew it. I should have prepped, come up with a specific diagnosis for Walt. Walt being a violent schizophrenic not on his meds would have fit perfectly. Or… something else. But I knew why I didn't just agree when Craig suggested it was schizophrenia. Walt had me that intimidated that I wasn't going to tell inconsequential lies without his permission. The taste of bile crept into my throat.

I approached Taryn. The films were all threaded for the 7 o'clock show and I didn't have anything to do. I talked to her as she sold tickets to the trickle of customers that were starting to show up.

"I'm not an eavesdropper or anything, but I heard your conversation. Sorry…"

"Oh, hey, no problem," I said with a false nonchalance.

"My brother is a schizophrenic, so if it turns out that that's what it is…" she wasn't looking at me. Her face was focused on the sidewalk and the customers. Bright yellowish-white lights from the underside of the marquee lit up the sidewalk. She was glowing, softly illuminated in the play of lights.

"The hardest part is his electromagnetic hypersensitivity."

"Come again…" she turned and looked at me, blinking.

"He… Frank… is allergic to electricity."

"Now, does he go around wearing foil?"

"Sometimes…" I gave a pained smile, thinking of Chuck.

"Oh, now that's a sign of schizophrenia, baby."

"I thought schizophrenics wore foil on their heads to prevent mind reading, not to shield electricity."

"Who knows why schizophrenics do what they do…" She laughed softly and turned her head, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Between the seven o'clock and nine o'clock shows Craig said he was heading on break and asked if anyone wanted anything. I realized with horror that he was holding my job application.

Later, alone in the break room with Lacey, I asked her about it.

"What is he, an Immigrations Officer?" I asked sarcastically.

"No, he's White Bear Lake PD. He does criminal background checks for me," Lacey explained, dipping one of her french fries into some barbecue sauce. "I assume that won't be a problem."

"Oh, yeah, I'm squeaky clean, like a lawyer. A lawyer on the up and up," I hastened to add, "not a sleazy lawyer…" WHY CAN'T I KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT?!

She laughed, which was bad because it was just going to encourage me.

"You'd be surprised how many of these kids dip into the cash register," she told me, trying to politely navigate eating her ribs in front of an audience. "Often, they get more elaborate than that… Running scams at the concessions stand and the box office. They are smart, I just wish they could use their talent for good."

"What kind of scams?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Like selling both halves of the ticket when they are working the window alone. I caught that one on a whim when I decided to check the ticket stubs of two old ladies going into the art theatre. One of them had the invalid half of the ticket, like she was trying to sneak in… Turns out the usher had sold them one ticket for the price of two! Then there's the bucket scam… this is gross. They'll collect 'lightly used' popcorn buckets from the auditorium and resell them."

I feigned gagging on my gyros sandwich.

"You can't tell me you didn't see this at your theatre," Lacey said.

"Oh, sure. The main thing was playing games with the inventory. Sometimes somebody would hide cups and buckets. That way the shortage would show up on one day and then they'd pocket the overage when they reintroduced their stash into inventory another day. One time, the manager found a stack of cups hidden in the boiler room and tried to use soda syrup strategically spilled on the floor to ferret out the thief." I didn't tell her that the thief was me.

"That's brilliant. Did it work?"

"The cup thief was crafty like a mouse. He, or she, did comeback but avoided the syrup trap and retrieved the cups…" Lacey looked disappointed. "Sorry, kind of anti-climatic. Boring even…"

"Not anti-climatic for the mouse," she said and I smiled.

Lacey got up to leave, and I was about to follow her when Taryn entered the break room. I lingered.

"How are you liking it so far?" Taryn asked. I sat back down.

"It's good. A little lonely up in that booth, but good. I feel very comfortable. How long have you been here?"

"Three years. It's a job. How come you were in the job market?" she tore open a package of saltines and crumbled them into her chili.

"New to town… my brother and I moved to be closer to our family," I said, rolling out the Paul Dobbs' story. "My parents are getting older… they live in Isanti."

"What… that's north of here?"

I nodded.

"My boy works here. Maybe you've met him—Daunte?" As she spoke Taryn made a lot of eye contact. Her eyes, a dark chocolate brown, mesmerized me, making me want to dig in to the minutiae of her life.

"Sure. One of the ushers. Seems like a good kid." I didn't have to lie.

"I give him a hard time. But he is good. I'm proud of him."

"I was an usher when I was his age. It's a good job to have in high school… fun…being around movies. All my friends were jealous."

"Oh, so that's why he likes it so much! You know what, he's dying to learn how to thread the projectors."

"Oh, I'll show him."

"That would be sweet of you."

Walt, Friday Morning, Day 10

I woke up around 9:30am. I was worn-out after staying up waiting for Saul to come home. I made some breakfast and then sat down with the phone to search the news. Seeing that CNN logo made me feel like I knew what was going on. I knew it was an illusion, but it still felt good. I watched the streaming feed for a little while, but as usual the network had chosen to follow a low-relevance, high drama story, this one involving nine-year old twins, a boy and a girl, who disappeared while going door to door trying to raise funds for the boy's hockey team. They were impossibly cute.

The biggest tragedy for me: the children were from New Mexico. My news story would have stern competition and therefore less coverage. It would be even riskier to take any solace in details left unmentioned. No mention of Skyler would not mean that they weren't harassing her and intimidating her with some animalistic approach akin to torture. No mention of $80 million would not mean they weren't searching for it.

There was nothing streaming on CNN, nothing in a search of news stories. Next I checked out emThe Albuquerque Journal/em. Here there was a story about me. I was mentioned as a person of interest in the search for Hank and his partner Gomez. Titled "Search Continues for Missing Agents," it was a small item, focused on Hank and Gomie. My heart wrenched as I thought about Marie. Jack Welker was going to have to pay for what he did. I had some ideas…

Once I finished scouring the internet for news from home, I turned to more casual pursuits. I looked up the films that Saul told me about and read a few reviews. Next I checked the movie listing at White Bear Lake Theatre. It all panned out; he wasn't making it up, though I wouldn't have put it past him.

I was antsy now. I had nothing to do and I would be home alone all weekend. I took a look at the groceries that Saul had purchased. It looked like we had the makings of spaghetti so I found some recipes online and decided I would make a nice, slow cook pot of sauce. I needed to be nicer to the guy. His main sin had been, had always been, that he was squirrelly and hard to control. But as far as I knew he hadn't violated my trust; he had only tested boundaries. He would learn that those boundaries were rock solid with strong consequences for trying to breach them. But for now I could give the guy some slack.

I set about preparing the sauce. I found a knife for cutting the onions. It was a little dull, but I was able to slice through the onions easily enough. The knife got me thinking, there were probably a dozen implements throughout the house that posed a threat to me. I would have to sweep the house of possible weapons, which begged the question: What was Saul's ultimate end game?

When I asked him to come with me I thought he'd do it on the basis of our relationship—he always wanted to be my consigliere, well here was his chance. But it appeared he felt trapped with me, which is a shame because then I wasn't getting his best thinking. He had become somewhat reserved. I had to drag ideas out of him and even then they were just anxiety-tinged and superficial.

So what did he want? Freedom—as in no jail—but he also wanted freedom from me. If I wanted to maintain Saul's cooperation I would have to execute an elaborate plan of control. Ideally, I wouldn't squelch Saul's creativity in the process, but at this point my first priority had to be control.

Saul, Friday Night, Day 10

I was relieved to arrive home at 12:25am that night. I had told Walt that I would generally be home around 12:30am and I didn't need any more drama. I was physically tired, but buzzing at the same time. I had passed the test, navigating all the complex tasks of Thursday and Friday. With all the films set up correctly, the rest of the week should be cake.

Walt had made spaghetti and he stayed up to eat with me. I was surprised that he was adapting his dinner plans around my schedule. In a conversational tone, he asked me about my day. I shared with him my professional victory. I almost expected him to mock me for it. After all, what did it matter, me finding success at some inconsequential job.

"Let's drink a toast," he said, raising his glass of wine, "to strong covers."

"To strong covers," I repeated, clinking his glass. "Oh. I have something to show you," I said with a silly enthusiasm. "That's Tom Hanks in emCaptain Phillips/em," I said, laying the frames I'd cut on the table. "And here's the projector and the platter system I told you about," I said showing him my phone.

"Evidence that you actually work at the movie theatre… that's thoughtful of you, Saul. Thanks." He seemed earnest.

"Well, I'm all about the evidence. Besides, I figure it must be difficult for you to sit in this house all day long… thought I'd give you a glance at the outside world."

"And I now have my own link to that world," he said, touching his phone. "There was an article about me in the Journal today."

I swallowed hard. Walt, on the other hand, didn't seem too concerned. He pulled up the article and read it aloud. This wasn't good. It meant that the feds would be coming around my office, trying to get a hold of me to locate Walt. Pretty soon I'd be 'missing,' and then a 'person of interest' too.

"How do you find these articles?" I asked, setting down my fork.

"What do you mean 'how'? I search." Walt was finished eating. He arched his fingers in front of him.

"But how do you search? You use search terms?"

"Of course. Walter White. Blue Sky. Crystal Meth. $80 million. Jesse Pinkman…"

"That's dangerous. The drug terms and the money, for example, connect you with the criminal enterprise. Wouldn't look good in court."

"Court? I'm not worried about that."

"Well, there's also the possibility that the feds use the search terms to locate you."

"Is that legal?"

I shook my head, "I don't even know how feasible it is. But what I do know is that after 9/11 the feds know when you scratch your ass if they want to. And 'person of interest' means they want to."

Walt hung his head.

"Don't search the news. Browse through it. And don't ever type 'Walter White'," I advised. Or 'Saul Goodman' I thought.


	7. Arsenic and Old Lace

Saul, Saturday Afternoon, Day 11 through Tuesday, Day 14

All the movies ran flawlessly on Friday. That meant Saturday should be smooth as well. The only thing that could go wrong now was a threading mistake, so I took great care with the projectors. Even so, I had cut my threading time down dramatically over the last couple of days. That gave me more time to get to know the staff, or, more precisely, Taryn. She seemed tethered to the ticket machine so I lingered behind her at the box office window during lulls in ticket sales.

I took my breaks with Taryn…

"How'd you hurt your knee? Was that your brother again?" She was scary incisive.

"No," I replied, thinking quickly. "I had a bad knee already; I took a bad fall on the ice one winter." I said, smiling sheepishly at the reality: a dozen deliberate falls over a few of winters… "and then I just twisted it again… a clutzy accident on the stairs."

She caught the meaning behind the smile. "Are you telling a fib?"

"I'm just embarrassed. I was trying to manufacture a better story, but that's the truth: an errant sock sent me tumbling down the stairs while I was carrying the laundry," I expanded upon the lie. It wasn't that far from the truth: the whack of a vacuum cleaner wand sent me tumbling down the stairs while I was carrying my life's possessions.

Over the next few days, I began to establish a routine, the theme of which was: stay away from Walt as much as possible. Work days were about thirteen hours long and I pushed at the edges of those long days, coming in a little early to help Lacey with her rounds, staying a little late to help with mundane tasks. I only saw Walt at breakfast or dinner, those dark times of day when the candles and camp lights in our house cast long threatening shadows.

When I wasn't working, I manufactured excuses to be out of the house. Mostly I went "shopping." I really did shop. I also visited the library and perused the paltry offerings. I went to the neighborhood bar. Didn't drink much, just chatted with the locals. And I drove, just drove around, randomly exploring. I'd get myself lost on purpose so that I could work my way out of it. I'd drive south or north of the metro area where the city gave way to farmland and lakes. I listened to KQRS, the local classic rock station and to CDs I borrowed from the library—blues artists I'd never heard of and rock bands I'd forgotten about.

I imagined excuses for the lateness of my return: I got lost, I got a flat, I lost track of time in the library. To my surprise, I didn't need them. Walt had a distracted giddiness about him. But I awaited the return of Hurricane Walt. This was just the eye of the storm, a void where the energy dissipates momentarily in a cruel trick. I knew the back end of the storm was coming, I just didn't know how or when.

Walt, Tuesday Afternoon, Day 14

My supply orders arrived on Tuesday. All of them, at the same time. Fortunately, Saul was out shopping when the mail carrier came by. I was flooded with excitement; it was like opening my first chemistry set. There were the pill press and pill ingredients, the colorant and the padlock. I quickly took the packages downstairs to a cabinet that I'd found, and locked them up with the padlock. Saul would go back to work on Wednesday. I'd have to wait until then to play with my new toys.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 15

I removed my purchases from the basement cabinet and organized everything on the workbench. I'd been fantasizing about this moment for two weeks. Now my plan to control Saul would take shape. But I had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. I was forgetting something… a respirator. Damn it! I kicked myself.

I went upstairs and rummaged through Saul's things, looking for a t-shirt. He had a couple of old rock t-shirts with band names and tour dates on them, but those he might notice missing. Finally, I found a plain white one.

I collected some wood, a small section of the old 2X4 I'd found in the basement, and foil and started a fire. Then, I took the t-shirt and wrapped it around my face, covering my mouth and nose and using the arms to tie it into place. The t-shirt smelled like Saul. It had traces of his cologne—the old cologne that he used to slather on to complement those ridiculous suits. As Paul Dobbs, he had changed colognes and lowered the volume considerably. Smart man: scent is our strongest memory.

I lit the 2x4 on fire, and through blowing and coaxing, I kept that fire going until the wood started to turn to ash. The ash fell obediently into my foil. After I had a tablespoon or so of ash, I put the fire out and left the ash and burnt stump to cool in the fireplace.

Old treated wood has an interesting property: it's preserved with a chemical called CCA or chromated copper arsenate. When you burn it, arsenic is released in the smoke and ash. Too bad for Saul; it's that easy.

The next step was to make the pills. I would use the hand-held pill press that I purchased to shape the binder, filler, colorant and arsenic into a pill. I had checked the pill shape to be sure that I had ordered the correct size moldings. Next I started working with the blue and red colorant. Mixing the two together and, after a lot of experimenting, I got a pretty good match on the purplish-blue color of the Xanax. I went upstairs and removed the wood stump from the fireplace and bagged it in a gallon Ziploc. Then I folded up the foil so that no ash could escape during transport and I returned to the basement.

I began to combine the ingredients. Because I didn't know how much poison to use, I created two different 'doses': low and high. Finally it was time to press the powder into pill form using the press. I compared my first creation with the sample pill and it was a very good facsimile. The last step was to cut the score on one side of the pill. The one thing that I couldn't do was to imprint the "Xanax 1.0" stamp. I would have to ride my luck that Saul would continue to mindlessly pop these pills. It was poetic: every time Saul looked for the comfort of his precious Xanax, I would be there, plunging the knife deeper.

I followed this process to painstakingly manufacture forty pills, separated into two groups. I put the low dose pills in a baggie and into my pocket. I put the rest of my supplies and all of my equipment and ingredients back in the cabinet and padlocked it.

Pill making had taken the entire afternoon; now I wanted to check the news. I was in for a big surprise.

My story had made it to CNN. Conflicting feelings washed over me. Logically, I'd known that national news exposure was inevitable. But I'd been dreading this moment nonetheless. Now that it was here I felt a strange calm bordering on relief. I felt safe here in White Bear Lake… they could search all they wanted to.

Fortunately for me, they were using an old photo: the one that Skyler and Junior used when I went missing in a 'fugue' state. I had a full head of hair and a big mustache. No beard. They weren't saying a lot, just that I was wanted in the disappearance of Hank and Gomez and that I was suspected of being the notorious drug kingpin, Heisenberg.

An article in the Albuquerque Journal went into much more detail about Heisenberg: descriptions of Blue Sky, the search for the missing money, and an interesting mention concerning my car, found with bullet holes near To'hajiilee. They also said that Jesse was missing. Saul's name came up: "There was no immediate comment from the office of Saul Goodman, White's attorney. Authorities suggested that they are concerned that Goodman may be missing as well." Saul was going to freak out.

I had a feeling he wasn't going to sleep well after he heard the news. That would put a little kink in my plans. Since Saul carries those pills in his pocket at all times, I'd have to sneak into his room while he slept in order to introduce my stock. I'd need him to be pretty knocked out to do that, not in a fidgety, anxiety ridden sleep, wondering who is pounding on his office door.

Saul, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 15

Wednesday was the slow day of my week, so I decided I would dedicate this day to performing regular maintenance on the projectors. Again, I surprised myself with my dedication to this dead-end job. But I needed to be dedicated to something, and my world didn't consist of much anymore.

I wanted to create a maintenance checklist for each of the projectors, so I borrowed the computer in Lacey's office. While I was sitting at the desk, I saw a note scratched in Lacey's handwriting: "All is lost, Counselor." I freaked out. What the hell was that? Did Lacey somehow know my true identity? Was she leaving me a cryptic note? Was she trying to scare me or was it a friendly warning? I was unsettled the rest of the day.

That evening Daunte came in to work a shift. I thought teaching him to thread would be a good distraction from the day's worries. I threaded up one of the projectors while he watched. Then it was his turn.

Daunte was confronted with a series of sprockets and gates, a series of decisions about which way to turn, how much slack to impart. His hands betrayed a slight tremor as he approached each gate. But he was smart, checking each choiceby gauging the tautness of the film. When finished, the film traced out a pattern like a slalom skier, zigzagging back and forth, looping motions followed by straight drives.

Mistakes would be costly. They'd be etched in the film, showing up as the characteristic lines that blight an old reel. Any dust particles, or fingerprints, would show up like bright spores, flashes of light on the screen, bursting like fireworks. Or, if on the soundtrack, they'd make popping noises, similar to the effect of dust on an LP. Daunte had to factor in all these potential sins as he navigated the complex array of gears and sprockets.

As he made his fledgling attempts, I corrected him, trying to imprint in his brain the fluid flow of a properly threaded projector. Daunte did well, learning quickly. Beaming, he fist-bumped me, thanking me for the preliminary lesson. I promised him more anytime he could break free.

I made it home by 12:15am. As usual, Walt was up and had made dinner, a French stew. The stew was delicious, but I didn't have much of an appetite after worrying all day about Lacey's bizarre message. Walt further spoiled the meal by announcing, "I have some potentially upsetting news."

Whatever it was, it would probably only exacerbate my cover being blown. I had spent the day mentally packing and planning my escape in my little Ford Ranger. Would Walt want to risk coming with me? Or risk staying behind? And if he did stay back, how would he survive without his handmaiden?

Walt told me that his picture was on CNN and that I had been mentioned in The Albuquerque Journal. My stomach lurched. He read the news item.

"What are we going to do, Walt?" I asked him, then cringed at having used his name.

"Hey, don't worry about it. This is to be expected. Of course they are going to notice we're missing. At least they're not showing your photo."

"Yet."

"And when they do, you look nothing like your Saul Goodman days."

"I think they might be on to me at work." I don't know why I told him.

"What?"

"I found a note that said, 'All is lost, Counselor.'"

Walt looked shocked, but then his look of concern morphed into a wily smile. He got up and retrieved the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. Thumbing through the paper he landed on the movie ads. He placed the page in front of me on the table.

"What do you see? Counselor?"

I scanned the page. The first thing I noticed, a film called _The_ _Counselor_. The realization smacked me in the face; I'd been staring all week at a poster for a Robert Redford movie called _All is Lost_. I laughed awkwardly, embarrassed at my stupidity.

I couldn't look at Walt; I just stared at the ads. I reached for another Xanax. I'd been popping them all day long. I was supposed to have one or two a day, and this was maybe my fifth. Walt did that hair ruffling thing again. I found it a little creepy and vaguely reassuring, but mostly creepy.

"You've got to learn to calm down," he said.


	8. All is Lost, Counselor

Saul, Thursday Afternoon, Day 16

After Wednesday's red alerts, both real and imagined, I welcomed the distraction of a busy day: three new films were coming and three leaving.

While the evening would be hectic, the afternoon was the calm before the storm. There was little I could do to prepare for the busy night ahead. I could, however, get the coming attractions ready.

I was making my selections when I came across a most disturbing sight, like seeing a roach in the spoonful of food you're about to bite into. "Saul" was scrawled across the label of a trailer. I began to sweat, my perspiration tinged with Paul Dobbs' cologne. My own scent had become unfamiliar to me. With trembling hands, I unwound the film and examined the frames in the dim booth light. Now the clicking of the projector, normally so comforting, seemed to be mocking me, like the ticking of a bomb.

The film was actually called _Sal_. It was about the actor Sal Mineo of _Rebel Without a Cause_ fame. Mineo had met his fate stabbed to death in an alley.

I let out an audible sigh.

But who wrote "Saul" on the trailer? It had to be Lacey, yes? Was it intentional? A meaningless mistake? A fluke, like the pairing of the two film titles _All is Lost_ and _The Counselor_? Was somebody trying to send me a message? If so, what could they know?

I'd show them that I wasn't intimidated. Even though I was. I dropped _Sal_ into the trailer reel for _12 Years a Slave_ right after _All is Lost_ and _The Counselor_.

Walt, Early Friday Morning, Day 17

By 4:20am, Saul was home and enjoying the tacos that I made. The tacos were laced with benadryl to ensure that he slept soundly. I tried to engage him in conversation while he ate.

"I've had a really long day, Frank. Could we talk tomorrow?" he rebuffed my conversational overtures. The benadryl was having the intended effect. He could hardly make it through dinner. By 4:45am he was heading off to bed.

At around 5:45am I crept up to Saul's room. Exhaustion gripped me, but motivation kept me sharp. I had a small candle burning in the hallway and was carrying a pocket flashlight. I was careful where the beam of the flashlight pointed; I didn't want any nosy neighbors to get suspicious about activities in the 'recluse house.'

I tried the doorknob. The bastard had locked the door. I went back downstairs, cupping the candle flame as I walked. It cast long ominous shadows. The wavering light, coupled with my fatigue, produced an unsettling effect.

Once downstairs, I studied the lock in my own door. It looked like something easily opened by a letter opener or a dinner knife.

I selected a small kitchen knife and returned to Saul's bedroom door. The lock slipped open with a soft click. Saul appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his back toward the wall. He snored softly.

I thought about my alibi should he wake up. I could tell him that he was having a nightmare, that he had called out during his sleep. It was a weak story.

His pants were tossed on a chair and I found the Xanax in the pocket. There were five pills in the bottle. I replaced Saul's Xanax with my own low dose stock.

Saul turned in his sleep. I froze and remained still for a full minute until I was satisfied that he hadn't awakened.

Saul, Friday Afternoon, Day 17

I got to work a little early since it was Friday and I wanted to check things out before the films had their first screenings. It was going to be a tough day. I was operating on about five hours of sleep.

Lacey seemed a bit frazzled and was relieved to see me. "You're early. Thanks. Before we open, can you check the marquee to make all the showtimes are correct? Oh, and look for burned light bulbs." Her voice was strained.

I laughed a little. We were _always_ checking the light bulbs. "Of course I'll check the marquee," I replied.

"My dad is coming tonight." Lacey's dad, Mr. Alvesson, owned the theatre. "He hates burned out light bulbs. There are always burned out light bulbs when he comes. He hates that."

"You're going to be fine. Everything'll run smooth. The movies all played great last night," I told her.

She locked the door behind me. "Oh! It's just that he makes me so nervous. He's such a damn perfectionist! I want him to meet you. I want you to show him the booth and all the great things you've been doing," she said. I followed her as she performed her building inspection.

"Is that a good idea? How's my face looking?" I paused to let her take a good look at me.

"All's I can see is a little trace of a black eye. I don't think it will be noticeable."

"Do you want me to wear some make-up or something?"

"No," she laughed. "A make-up wearing projectionist is _not_ boring…" She was heading up to the booth. "Let's review your trailer reels. My dad is kind of a freak about coming attractions."

I showed Lacey clip boards that I created for each of the projectors. When we got to Theatre 2, I read off the trailers: " _All is Lost, Counselor, Sal_. I watched her face to see if she betrayed even a trace of recognition. She did not.

Lacey asked me to make a bunch of changes on the basis of her father's whims. When she left the booth I popped a Xanax and set to work.

By the four o'clock show I had flu-like symptoms. It was odd because there had been no onset. It was just wham-o. I had diarrhea and a splitting, blinding headache, totally debilitating. Since it came on so fast, I thought maybe it was food poisoning.

I was debating whether I should stick around to meet Lacey's father. It would look terrible to go home sick but I wasn't sure I'd be fit to meet him. I didn't want to leave the safety of the booth, and my own private bathroom, to try to find Lacey. I called her on the house phone and asked her to come upstairs.

I could tell by her expression that I looked bad. "I think I have food poisoning or something… I'll stick around if you need me, but I think maybe I should go."

"I hate to ask, Paul…"

"No, if you need me, I'll gut it out. What time is he coming?"

"He'll probably be here around 6:30."

"Do you have any medicine? Aspirin? Pepto Bismol?"

She brought me the meds. After Lacey left, I took my coat to use as a pillow and laid down on the floor. That's how bad I felt. I didn't care that it was the floor. In fact it felt kind of cool and good. I slept soundly until the four o'clock shows wrapped up. I got up unsteadily and threaded for seven o'clock. I was bleary-eyed and needed to use a flashlight to make sure I got the films in frame.

Mr. Alvesson was a tall, bald man in his sixties. There was sort of a fake congeniality about him, and an intensity; I could feel it in his hand shake. I had been sweating profusely and I hoped my hand wasn't clammy. "Paul, nice to meet you," he said, "Lacey has been saying nice things about you."

"I'm very happy to be here, Mr. Alvesson," I pandered, though it was true. "You have a beautiful theatre."

He gave me a knowing smile.

"Let's see some of these improvements you've been making in the booth. You know, I have ten other theatres to manage. I'm always looking for best practices."

I showed him my clip boards and told him about some other ideas I had. But by then, my head was bursting with the worst headache I ever had. It was as though I had to excavate my mind for every word that I uttered. I finally had to stop talking while Alvesson contented himself with an inspection of my projectors.

"Nice operation you have here, Paul," he concluded, shaking my hand again. His gaze lingered on my black eye. I know my hand was clammy this time. "Nothing to be nervous about." He made a sort of snorting laughing sound. "You're doing a fine job."

At 8pm, after the seven o'clock ticket sales, Taryn came to the projection booth. "Lacey told me you're under the weather," she said. I was huddled in a chair shivering, my coat draped over me. "Jesus, Paul, you should go home."

"But Alvesson's here."

"You can't make a good impression when you're sick as a dog."

"I've already made my impression."

"Then GO."

"Maybe after the seven o'clock shows finish. Alvesson is still down there. What's he watching? _12 Years a Slave_?"

"Mmm mmm mm," Taryn responded with a sing-song rhythm. "I brought you some soup." She held out a cup of soup which I recognized from the Greek diner next door.

"That's brilliant of you. Thanks," I said, though I didn't think I could keep it down.

"What's wrong with you? Flu, food poisoning?"

"Something like that."

I stuck it out to thread the nine o'clock show and then, mercifully, Lacey let me go home.

Walt, Friday Afternoon, Day 17

It was D-Day and I couldn't wait to see the payoff to all my effort. So much plotting and preparation had gone into creating this day. I couldn't wait for Saul's return home.

I went through my regular routine of checking the various news sources on the web. I browsed rather than using keyword searches. I included the Minneapolis Star-Tribune in my reading to see if they had picked up my story and just to get a sense of the place.

I kept wondering how Saul was faring. Anticipation was making the day crawl. To get my mind off of it, I got out the chess board.

I planned to teach Saul to play—seemed like it would be a good distraction for both of us. I missed teaching. I considered whether he was up to the intellectual challenge. He seemed like a smart enough guy when he applied himself. But I think he suffered from ADD, so he might not have the disposition for chess.

For me, the challenge of chess was a stimulant. I set up the chess board to mimic the first problem in the chess challenges book and I got to work. Chess kept me occupied for a couple of hours until it was time to cook dinner. I had decided to make lasagna.

Walt, Friday Night, Day 17

At around 9:30 I heard Saul's truck in the driveway. This was a good sign; he was coming home early. The moment he entered the house I could see that I had given him enough arsenic—perhaps too much. He looked haggard and pale. I was a little surprised by the rapid effects.

"Hey, buddy, you're home early…" I said, studying his appearance. "That's great because I tried out a lasagna recipe and…" he held his hand up for me to stop.

"Nothing for me. I think I have food poisoning, or…" He squinted as if the dim candlelight was hurting him. "How are you feeling?" he asked me.

"Fine, fine. I'm great. What's wrong?" I did my best to feign concern.

"The flu then… I think I have the flu. You should stay away from me."

"Non-sense," I said waving my hands. "I'll make you some chicken soup."

"No. Thank you… I'm just going to sleep," he said, heading to the stairs.

"Saul, before you go, I think you should know…" he stopped and turned around to face me, worry flooding his face. "Your picture was in the Albuquerque Journal today."

"Aw, Jesus," he said, grabbing a hold of a chair to steady himself.


	9. Falling Down

Saul, Friday Night, Day 17

I got up to my room and headed straight for bed. I desperately wanted to check out the news to see what Walt was talking about. But I couldn't muster the energy. Besides, my brain felt like it was pushing against the boundaries of my skull; I wouldn't be able to focus my eyes on the phone.

I slept fitfully. I had diffuse nightmares that left me trembling and sweating. And terrible stomach pains, although the diarrhea had calmed. In the middle of the night I went looking for some acetaminophen. After that I got a few hours rest.

Saul, Saturday Morning, Day 18

Walt shook me awake, and as he came into focus, I saw a knife.

"Are you here to put me out of my misery?" I asked. I wasn't joking and I wasn't scared. My head hurt too much.

"Time for work. Are you up for it?"

"Hell, no. Hand me my cell phone?" I gave Lacey a call. She didn't sound too happy, but I reminded her that we didn't want anyone else to get sick. She pointed out that I'd probably infected her father with the handshakes. Great.

Walt let me be and I fell back to sleep until mid afternoon. When I awoke, I lay in bed for a moment evaluating my condition. I still felt horrible but was a notch or two better. Sleep seemed to have helped. The downside to feeling a little better was that I now had the mental energy to focus on last night's bad news: my picture was in the paper. I had really hoped that I was too low profile to warrant that kind of coverage. But in retrospect, that hope was delusional given my late-night-TV-semi-celebrity status. I took a Xanax to calm my nerves and another acetaminophen for my head.

When I got downstairs, I asked Walt, "Do you think you could make that soup you were talking about?" I hadn't eaten in over 24 hours.

"Glad to see you're up," Walt said rising from the table. "I already made the soup…"

"I'll get it. You should stay away from me. Your immune system is compromised, right?"

"I'll be fine. Sit down. You look like hell."

"Anymore news from home?" I asked already wincing in anticipation of the answer.

"Same as yesterday."

"And you said my photo's in the Journal… or did I dream that?"

"Saul Goodman's photo's in the Journal, not Paul Dobbs. It says that you're missing, presumed dead." Walt started browsing through his history and handed me the phone.

"And how do they presume I died?" I took a look at the picture. It was a screen grab from a "Better Call Saul" commercial. I did look totally different. Each morning when I looked at myself in the mirror I was tempted to shave off my stupid beard; now I was grateful that I hadn't. Walt, too, was beginning to look different. His hair was coming in, albeit a little patchy, and he was filling out his beard. Despite his behavior he was emlooking/em like a nicer person.

"It doesn't say how you might have died. They imply that I killed you." He sounded mad about the implication. I wasn't sure if he was jealous that I was supposed to be dead or offended that he was supposed to be the one who did it. Probably the former.

Walt, Saturday Morning, Day 18

Saul normally came downstairs at around 9:30am. When he hadn't roused by 10:45 I went to check on him. I knocked on the door and hearing no reply used a kitchen knife to open the lock. Saul was sound asleep. I called his name—nothing. I had to shake him rather hard to wake him.

He was pale and he squinted due to the late morning light escaping through the blinds. He held his hand up to shield his eyes. He wasn't going to work. He wasn't going anywhere. I wasn't sure he was going to get out of that bed at all. I felt a little nervous; it looked like I might have gone too far with the dosing. I just wanted to incapacitate him a little bit—make him feel crappy so that he'd put off any escape plans for the next day, perpetually. But he'd consumed too much arsenic; I feared that he might want to go to the hospital.

That's when it struck me what I was doing wrong. Saul was probably supposed to take only one or two Xanaxes a day. In reality he took much more. It was impossible to predict. He might take up to five pills on a given day. And taking five of my pills might kill him. He went back to sleep and I headed down to my workshop. I created a new batch of super-low dose pills, about a third the potency of what I had used in the original low dose pills. In Saul's state of disability it was easy to replace his pills with the new set.

Saul, Saturday Afternoon, Day 18

The soup was delicious. But I couldn't keep it down. I went back to sleep around 4:30pm. I didn't sleep well… I had intense stomach cramps and the terrible headache continued to hound me, untouched by any painkillers.

Saul, Sunday Morning, Day 19

I slept all the way through until morning. I woke up around 10:30am and I was feeling better. Not a lot better—if Saturday was a 1 on a scale of 1 to 10, Sunday was maybe a 3. Work still seemed like an impossibility. I called Lacey to tell her I wasn't going to make it in. It's a good thing that I had been working my ass off at that place, otherwise I think my job would have been at risk.

"Has anyone else come down with it?" I asked, thinking of her father.

"No, just you. Look, I've got a lot to do…"

"Sure you go." She would probably have to do all the threading.

I had some soup and read the news from Albuquerque. Same as what Walt told me yesterday. I went back upstairs to do some reading and dozing. I was asleep at 5pm when Walt knocked on my door.

"There is a black woman at the door," he said, agitated.

"What does she look like?"

"I don't know. I saw her through the peephole."

I quickly changed into sweats and a henley shirt and opened my bedroom door. Walt had a gun in his hand.

"What the hell, Walt?!"

"We don't know who that woman is. Whether she's alone. What she wants," Walt hissed. "She could be the police."

"I don't think they're gonna come like that. Anyway, I think I know who it is… someone from work."

I went downstairs. Walt stood back, looming on the staircase. I looked through the peephole and sure enough it was Taryn.

"Hello! What a pleasant surprise," I said when I'd opened the door.

"Hi, Paul," she smiled sweetly.

"I'd invite you in, but I wouldn't want to get you sick. How did you find me?"

"Lacey gave me your address. I hope you don't mind." I didn't. Normally I would have gone ballistic over privacy rights, but this particular invasion of my privacy had resulted in the angel of mercy at my doorstep right when I needed her.

"No… it's great to see you. What brings you by?" She handed me a couple of grocery bags. "It's TheraFlu and such. And I made some pumpkin soup and corn bread for when you're up to it."

"You're brilliant, Taryn. Thanks so much."

"You're welcome. How are you feeling?"

"Like crap, but a tiny bit less so than yesterday."

"Well, you look like it, baby," she laughed softly, her face lighting up. "That pumpkin soup will get you back on your feet. It's my grandma's recipe."

Walt, Sunday Morning, Day 19

Saul came downstairs around 11am. He was still looking terrible. His shoulders were drawn in, his face seemed gaunt. He wasn't talkative, which, for Saul, is the ultimate litmus test in how he's feeling. He had some more of my soup; I was pleased that he liked it.

I had slipped him the new mix of pills the previous day. I was dying to know how much Xanax he had taken in the last 24 hours and whether he'd gotten any of the dosed pills. He told me he felt better but it wasn't evident to me.

Saul went back to bed after lunch. I checked the news. It seemed that my story on CNN was more prominent, which was disturbing. And Saul was being mentioned on CNN now. I played chess for awhile and then took a nap myself.

At 5pm, a black woman came to the door. I was quite alarmed, thinking she might be a cop or a fed, though it would be strange for a fed to show up alone. It turned out she was someone who worked with Saul. She brought groceries which was great, solved a problem for us. Nonetheless, I was irate.

"How could you let someone come to our house!" I yelled at Saul once she was gone.

"I didn't know she was coming! She got the address at work."

I walked right up to him, face to face, "This better not…" I started coughing and couldn't finish the sentence. He limped away and I noticed he had stopped using the cane.

Fifteen minutes went by and I simmered down. Saul had left the groceries in the hallway where I had confronted him. I took them to the kitchen and unpacked. It was a cornucopia: fruits and vegetables, tea, oatmeal, turkey, eggs, soup. Saul's friend had also included some medications, Tylenol, NyQuil, and TheraFlu.

I returned to the living room where he was sitting on the couch staring into space, his mouth dangling open. "She brought some NyQuil and TheraFlu. Do you want any?" I said.

"EmHer/em name is Taryn," Saul responded.

"Do you want some?"

"What's TheraFlu for?"

I examined the bottle, "Nasal congestion, sore throat, cough, and body aches."

"I don't think I have the flu. I'm not at all congested," he said.

"What do you think it is?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's food poisoning but it's weird because no one else got it. And I had the same things as other people."

Saul, Sunday Evening, Day 19

After I was awakened by Taryn's visit, I decided to stay up and have dinner. I had mixed feelings about Taryn stopping by; I was thrilled that she thought of me, and getting the food and supplies was a godsend. However, I didn't like her coming so close to Walt. And like an idiot I'd volunteered her name. There are probably about as many Taryns in the Twin Cities as there are Sauls.

I focused on the warm and protected feeling that I got the moment I realized it was Taryn at the door, bringing goods for me. Unsolicited. It felt better than any other moment in the past month. She was a real sweetheart.

I asked Walt if he would prepare me some tea and heat up Taryn's pumpkin soup. The soup turned out to be delicious. How couldn't it have? I was smitten.

There were a couple of books on the table. "Beginner's Chess" and "Advanced Chess Challenges." I started reading the beginner's book, but it took too much concentration and increased the intensity of my headache.

"Do you want anything more to eat?" Walt called from the kitchen.

"What do we have?" Walt came into the living room and rattled off everything that Taryn had brought.

"That's quite a friend you have there. You'll have to tell me more about her." I nodded at Walt's suggestion though there was nothing I'd rather do less.

"How about a turkey sandwich?"

"Will do," he said with a forced cheeriness. Less than an hour ago, he wanted to knock my head off.

"What are these chess books?" I asked him. "You've got skill levels on both ends of the spectrum."

"I can play chess with myself using the "Challenge" book. And, when you're up to it, I thought I could teach you to play."

"Me? No. Monopoly is more my speed."

"We can play that too, I saw it downstairs. But chess… I think it will be a great learning experience for us both and a great way to pass the time."

I had to call the theatre to tell Taryn not to come to the house anymore. I waited until she would have have down time.

She answered the phone.

"Hi, Taryn. It's me, Paul."

"Hi, sweetie, how are you feeling? I'm worried about you."

"I'll be all right, just a bad case of the flu."

"I think you should go to the doctor." I wished I could.

"The flu is a virus. Nothing the doctor can do."

"But you could be getting dehydrated. There's some Gatorade in the groceries."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am for you bringing over the food and the meds. You're a lifesaver. I just had the soup; it was heavenly."

"I'm happy to help."

"Listen, I don't know how to say this but, you can't come to the house anymore."

"Oh, sweetie, is it your brother? I caught a glimpse of him standing behind you, lurking in the shadows."

"Yeah. He doesn't want any visitors. But I'd like to see you," I added quickly. "Can I take you out for dinner when I've licked this thing?"

"I would like that very much."

I wrapped up the call.

"Frank, we have some Gatorade, right? Can I get some of that? I need to keep hydrated."

He delivered me the sandwich and drink. I headed off to bed around 8:30pm. My head felt like it was swirling, but I think that was a good thing; I was completely entranced with Taryn.


	10. Spellbound

Walt, Monday Morning, Day 20

I got up at 7:45am and found Saul in the dining room eating some oatmeal. I was shocked to see him in full on Saul Goodman attire, right down to that stupid pinky ring. He had on a bright blue shirt and a yellow tie with geometric patterns. He was even wearing a suit jacket and the Wayfarer ribbon.

"What's going on, Paul?"

"Who?" he said, looking confused.

" _Saul_. What the _hell_ is going on?" I sat down next to him.

"I have to get back to work. I haven't been to the office in ages." He kept shoveling the oatmeal into his mouth. Some fell on his tie and he didn't seem to notice.

"Saul, this isn't funny."

"Funny. No, this is not a joke." He had a vacant look in his eyes and was staring at a fixed point on the wall paper. "I don't feel good, Walt."

"I know, buddy."

"Do you think they can hear us?" He glanced at me surreptitiously.

"Who?"

"Those snails on the wall," he said, wiping away sweat from his forehead with a napkin.

I studied the wall. The wallpaper had a pattern to it, a flower motif. There was nothing snail-like about it.

"There aren't any snails."

"I've been getting a lot of questions about you. I have to get to the office and talk to the feds."

His bizarre behavior was definitely arsenic induced; delirium is a symptom of acute poisoning. Nonetheless, it was disturbing and I was tempted to haul off and smack him.

"There will be no talking to the feds." I touched his forearm and he pulled it away like an insolent child.

"No. They want to know where you are. They want to know what you did with Hank and Jesse."

I slapped him. I didn't mean to.

" _No feds, Saul_. There will be no talking to the feds under any circumstances."

He started to cry. "They're going to want to know why I'm sick. What should I tell them?"

"The truth."

"That you're poisoning me?" That was like a punch in the gut. I tried to remain neutral, unresponsive.

"I'm not poisoning you, Saul." I held up my hands, palms exposed. "You have the flu, or maybe food poisoning, remember?"

"Right. I have poisoning."

"No, it's something you ate. Or it's the flu." He was reaching into his pocket. "Did you take the NyQuil?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then I don't think you should have a Xanax right now. They are contraindicated," I said, making it up.

"What?"

"You shouldn't take them together," I explained. "I'll make you some chamomile tea instead."

"Walt doesn't like me to take Xanax," he concluded. "There are things missing from the box," he said.

"What box?" I asked. He squinted at me.

" _My_ box. Has been molested. Two things are missing. One thing was watched."

"What box, Saul?"

"Where I keep my ring," he said, showing me his fingers.

He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "They took my passport and birth certificate. And they watched my video." I felt like I had walked into the middle of his nightmare.

"Maybe it's the snails," I suggested.

"The snails are poisoning me. Yes, that makes sense." Then, lowering his voice again, he asked, "will you kill them for me?"

"Yes, I'll kill the snails. Where are they?"

"Right there," he said, pointing at me. My stomach churned.

I considered getting Saul to the hospital. I wasn't trying to kill the man. When he went back upstairs, I did a little research on arsenic. In addition to delirium, acute arsenic poisoning causes tachycardia, hypotension, shock, seizures and potentially coma. I was aiming at creating a chronic low grade condition. Acute symptoms meant that I was missing the mark.

Saul, Monday Afternoon, Day 20

I awoke at around 1pm. I still felt horrible; in fact I think I was worse than the day before. I panicked for a moment, thinking that I was late for work, but then I remembered it was my day off.

I'd had crazy dreams. I was at my Saul Goodman office. Something about snails crawling around on the ceiling and walls. The snails told me, "I made you sick." The feds were there and they were interrogating me about Walt. The snails crawled across the floor. These snails were huge, perhaps eight inches in diameter, pale green in color. I was staring at the snails, thinking that everyone could see them. Craig, the security guy, was there putting up movie posters: _All is Lost, The Counselor_ , and _Sal_. I was embarrassed. I didn't want the feds to see.

One of the feds asked me "Where are Hank Schrader and Jesse Pinkman?"

I replied, "ask the snails."

They laughed and asked "what snails?" Then they put me in a straight jacket made of canvas lined with foil.

The snails said to me, "ask them what they've done with Kim and Chuck."

I got out of bed and found that I was very unsteady on my feet. I put some clothes on and went downstairs.

"Hey, buddy," Walt said. I hated it when he'd speak to me that way. It was so obsequious. "Do you want something to eat?"

"Yes," I replied. "Some of Taryn's soup and her corn bread." Walt prepared the food and brought it to me in the dining room.

"What do you want for dinner?" he asked.

"I don't know, omelets maybe?"

"Sounds good." He sat down across from me. "How are you feeling?"

"Like crap."

"So tell me about Taryn. She's a good looking woman."

"Yes, she is."

"You have a thing for her?"

"I do." God, that was a stupid thing to say. I wanted so badly to gloat about my budding relationship with her. But I should have kept my mouth shut to protect her from this monster. Though I knew that if I said nothing, Walt would get mad; he'd find a way to make me talk. "She's the cashier at work. She's got a great sense of humor. She laughs at my jokes."

"Are there many blacks in White Bear Lake?"

"I don't know."

"I'm guessing she lives in St. Paul?"

"Minneapolis," I lied.

"Are you going to take her out?"

"I'd like to."

"I think it's a fine idea. You go ahead." I was surprised by his reaction. I thought surely he wouldn't want me to have friends or, God forbid, a love interest. He'd be too jealous for that. What was he up to?

Saul, Tuesday Afternoon, Day 21

I awoke around 11:30 and I was feeling much better. I still had a headache and stomachache, but the level of intensity was much reduced. I wanted to run down the stairs and go out and play like a little kid. I thought I might be able to go shopping to replenish supplies. I put on some clothes and went downstairs. Walt was in the living room reading his phone.

"Anything of interest?" I asked.

"What? No." He paused and looked at me. "You're looking better!"

"I feel better."

"Thank God. I was really worried about you, buddy."

"Yeah?" I found that hard to believe.

"I think you were delirious yesterday… do you remember?"

I figured he was trying to _Gaslight_ me. "I had some crazy dreams," I admitted.

"I don't think they were dreams, Saul. You told me you saw a snail. It was talking to you. Remember?"

"I told you about that? When?" I truly didn't remember. How did he know about my dream?

"Oh, this was early yesterday morning."

"But I didn't get up until 1pm," I said my voice rising.

"You were up around 8am. You were wearing one of your Goodman suits. In fact, you spilled some oatmeal on your tie. Check it out." I looked at him skeptically. "Go. Go look at your tie. I'll make you some breakfast."

Reluctantly, I headed upstairs. Sure enough, I had unceremoniously dumped the suit on the chair. That wasn't like me, but I could do it if I was feeling sick enough. I found the tie in the tangle of clothes. Walt was right, it was soiled with oatmeal. I brought the tie downstairs with me. What the hell was I doing wearing that suit? Maybe I didn't wear the suit, maybe Walt dribbled some oatmeal on my tie. But he did know about the snails. I felt like I was losing my mind.

"Do we have any seltzer water?" I asked Walt as I draped the tie over one of the chairs. I wrote that down on our shopping list.

"I don't think so… see I told you," he said, waving his hand at the tie. "Now, since you're doing better, let's move on to lighter topics: chess!"

"I don't know if I'm up for it."

"Come on! It'll be fun."

It took Walt about an hour to explain all the rules to me. I had to create a cheat sheet that outlined all the permissible moves of each type of piece. We still hadn't started our first game when I announced: "I'm going to be heading out now. I need to do some grocery shopping while I still have energy."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"There's stuff we need and I'm feeling a lot better. Yes, I think it's a great idea."

"OK," he said.

Walt, Wednesday Morning, Day 22

Saul came down around 10am. He was wearing a thermal shirt and jeans. Though he looked to be struggling physically, the utter disorientation and confusion seemed to be gone. His eyes were brighter and more focused. I was relieved; he had really scared me.

I was unsettled by the events of the last couple of days. He had no memory of our earlier conversation and no memory of his talk about going to the feds. Why did his psyche pick talking to the feds to focus on? Obviously his unconscious mind is trying to process everything. Is Saul planning to take, as he would describe it, the nuclear option?

"What'll you have this morning?" I asked.

"Nothing for me… not hungry."

"Oh… if you're still not well, you should stay home."

"I need to go in," he replied.

Saul, Wed Morning, Day 22

I rose early in order to return to work. Looking in the mirror I searched for evidence from the attack by Walt. All the bruises seemed to have healed. It brought to mind the beating from Jesse; my nose still hurt from that. I thought about how he accused me of helping to poison Brock Cantillo. That boy's poisoning was the lowest moment in my career. Well… one of them anyway. I was getting ready to trim my beard when it struck me. _Walt was poisoning me._


	11. Dog Day Afternoon

Saul, Wednesday Morning, Day 22

My chest tightened around the thought: _Walt is poisoning me._ It was a conclusion that fit the evidence perfectly. The _only_ conclusion that did. And yet I shrank back from this declaration of his evil. But why would I afford him that courtesy? He had poisoned before. Hell, he had _killed_ before.

I walked down the stairs in a stunned trance. He spoke and I ignored him. Maybe, hopefully, I politely turned down his offer of breakfast. I don't remember. At work, I threaded absently, a flooding distaste growing low down in my throat. I vomited it out and then sat down to do some research.

First on my list of possible culprits was the obvious choice: ricin. Its symptoms are similar to food-poisoning. A growing panic threatened to consume me. The Cantillo boy had nearly died, and he was in the hospital. Then I noticed a hopeful search result: "Self-Treatment at Home." I clicked on it and got: "None! If exposure to ricin is a possibility, the people exposed must seek medical attention immediately." That's what it said, word for word, exclamation mark included.

That rat bastard! Was he trying to kill me? Why?

I read on. I read about stomach pumping, soaking up the poison with super-activated charcoals and I read about castor beans being the source of this nasty substance.

Ricin was the obvious choice for Walt, but how likely was it that he'd be carrying castor beans around with him? He had to get his shit together quickly when he blew out of town. When you just killed a DEA agent do you say to yourself, "oh, let me grab my ricin in case I want to slowly kill someone?" Maybe Walt does.

I tried a different approach, typing my symptoms into the search engine to see what causes would come back. The first hit seemed pretty benign: medication side-effect, sleep apnea, food poisoning... But lower down a search result caught my eye: Arsenic.

Could Walt have passed up his favored poisoning method to use the most stereotypical method of all? Arsenic seemed too mundane for him.

But with a more comprehensive review of arsenic symptoms, I realized the poison was leaving its ominous fingerprint all over my life: metallic taste in mouth (check), blood in urine (check), loss of hair (oh, great), confusion, even delirium (maybe?), abdominal pain (check), convulsions (OMG), excessive sweating (check), hemolysis (who knows?), and shock (wonderful).

On cue, I noticed that my shirt had become cold and sticky against my skin. I became conscious of my breathing: it was too shallow and fast. I tried to breathe in slowly but instead found myself gulping air like a grounded fish. Just then I heard a straining noise on the projector, and then "snap." The film broke.

 _12 Years a Slave_ had a brain wrap. The jolting flash of white jarred against the screen as the bulb shone on for an instance without the film. I looked at the mess and thought about just slinking out the emergency exit, leaving White Bear Lake and the evil monster who lived in my house... but Lacey appeared, breathless, next to the projector and I knew I couldn't just walk out with a witness.

So I set to work. I had to unwind the film which had wrapped itself tightly around the brain mechanism that feeds the film into the projector. I noticed the issue; the platter motor had been disengaged so that the platter didn't move like it was supposed to. It took about ten minutes, but I got the film unwound. My hands, my whole body, trembled as I worked.

"Paul, are you okay?" Lacey asked. I wiped the sweat away from my face.

"Sure, just a little under the weather still." I said, but my voice didn't feel like it belonged to me. Half of me was on the stairs of the emergency exit, in my truck, driving away to take revenge on Walt.

I pulled out some slack from the film, spliced it back together. Something about the feel of the film in my fingers brought me back together, body and mind. I looked up at her and attempted a reassuring smile.

"I have to go downstairs in case anybody complains. We'll talk about this later." I tried to be solemn in response to the pending admonition, but I was already sinking under the weight of Walt's terror.

With Lacey gone, I huddled in my coat and read on about arsenic. Walt could have gotten hold of it by burning wood. I remembered coming home one day to the smell of the fireplace. I recall thinking it was a little warm to be burning a fire. And then I told myself that maybe Walt was cold due to the chemo. I felt a little sorry for him at the time. What an asshole.

I checked out a few other poisons that I could think of: cyanide, strychnine, anti-freeze; I even checked out Xanax overdose. It seemed like ricin and arsenic were the most likely culprits.

What to do next? I wanted desperately to go to the hospital. I was trying to think through the implications of that. My brain felt like someone had poured glue in it.

If I went to the hospital the whole game would be over. They'd figure out I was being poisoned. They'd investigate the house. They'd find Walt and arrest him. He would tell them about me and we'd both end up in prison. Prison, I imagined, would be like living with a bunch of Walts, being guarded by a bunch of Walts, and being a sitting duck for a shanking like Dan Wachsberger. No. I wasn't going out that way.

I looked up super-activated charcoal. It was available commercially. Probably not quite the same as you'd get in the hospital, but who knows? Maybe it's like Tylenol ( _the pain reliever hospitals trust most_ …).

I needed an exit strategy. That was clear. Meanwhile, I'd stop eating at the house, hydrate as much as possible, and take charcoal.

Walt, Wednesday Afternoon, Day 22

I wondered at Saul's refusal of breakfast. Surely it meant that he'd figured out he's being poisoned. It wasn't surprising given the contents of his delirious ravings. At some level, he clearly knew he was being poisoned. Now it was only a matter of time until he realized that it wasn't the food that was poisoning him. He'd figure out about the Xanax. And then what would he do? He'd probably want to go to the hospital, but he'd probably see that as the surefire prison sentence that it was. Perhaps he would seek revenge. That's what I would do. I had to be on the alert for Saul's retaliation.

Walt, Wednesday Night, Day 22

Saul came home that night at around 12:30am. He looked terrible; his face was drawn and he seemed to be shaky. "I made a chicken casserole," I told him.

"It smells good, but I ate at work. I think… I want to get my schedule back on track; I'm going to start eating at work at a decent hour." His voice was strained.

"I hear the popcorn there is great," I said with a calculated levity designed to betray no acknowledgement of the poisonous dance between us. "How did your first day back go?"

"I started feeling really crappy again at work today. It wasn't a good day."

"What movies are you getting tomorrow?"

He sighed and said, "Ironically it's _All is Lost_ , _Counselor_."

"Is _The Counselor_ a comedy? I could use some comedy."

"No. Nothing funny about _The Counselor_. It's a mob movie."

"Mob movies can be funny. What about _Analyze This_?" I asked.

" _The Counselor_ is not a comedy."

"So what's it about then?"

"A lawyer gets involved in some ill-advised drug deals," he explained.

"That sounds kind of familiar."

"Yeah, I'm hoping one of the kids will stay to watch it. Trouble is, it's a weeknight and most of those kids are in high school."

"What's _All is Lost_ about?"

"Robert Redford, lost at sea."

"That sounds depressing, and too close to home. Why don't you watch _The Counselor_ and tell me about it."

"All right," he said. "I'm going to bed; I don't feel good." He turned away.

"Saul?" I called after him. "You're being talked about on CNN now." I saw him reaching for his pocket.

Saul, Wednesday Night, Day 22

I was glad to finally be in the refuge of my room, even if Walt was just on the other side of the door. I had brought a bottle of whiskey to the room the other day and I slammed some down now, even though it didn't seem like a good idea. I needed to bolster myself before checking the news. I still felt ragged and disembodied from the horrific day. I wasn't sure I could take anymore. I sucked in a deep gasp of air and picked up my phone. I hadn't bothered to light the candle, so I worked by streetlight. The light of the phone lit up the room, so I closed the blinds, twisting the rod tight.

I went to CNN and browsed. It took awhile, but I finally found it. Saul Goodman, wanted for questioning. Saul Goodman missing, but presumed dead. Presumed dead. I turned it over in my mind. Yes, that is how I felt. Presumed dead.

I stared at the article. The date caught my eye: _Sunday_ , October 24th. Three days ago. On top of everything, he was withholding information from me.

I didn't fall asleep for a very long time and when I did, the snails came back.

Saul, Thursday Afternoon, Day 23

With two movies leaving and two movies incoming, the Thursday night changeover was to be a bit simpler this week. After the previous day's trauma, I could use simpler. I tried to be mindful as I threaded each projector for the noon shows: _let the threading distract you_ , I told myself. Lacey had lectured me about the brain wrap; it wasn't fun to be reprimanded by a 12 year old, but she was right. I needed to be more careful. It didn't matter how that motor got disengaged; I should have caught it.

Much as I tried to get lost in the threading, thoughts of Walt insinuated their way in. What did I ever do to him? Sometimes I could have been a more effective 'criminal' lawyer, but the complexities of representing Walter White exceeded my pay grade. He's going to push me to the edge of death for that?

Maybe he was trying to weaken me so he could finish me off. Sneak into my room at night and stab me, or something. But if he wanted to kill me, he could just shoot me. Maybe he wanted to use me as collateral in negotiating with the feds. I don't know, I couldn't figure it out, and thinking about it just made me feel more ill.

I tried to shift to a more constructive train of thought: how could I get back at Walt? I could give him some of his own medicine, so to speak. That would involve acquiring ricin or arsenic and administering it to him somehow, but how? I could slip it into his food or drink. But that would be hard given he does all the cooking and I wasn't about to eat at the house again.

I did some more research on ricin. If they found this phone, I would be fucked. But with Walter White as my roommate, I was fucked anyway, so what did it matter?

The website said that the process of extracting the ricin from castor beans was 'complicated,' similar to the extraction process of cyanide from almond (thanks for the helpful comparison). Of course they didn't outline how that was done. I didn't suppose "Poisoning Your Local Lunatic for Dummies" was available at the White Bear Lake public library.

The more I read about ricin, the less it seemed like that was what Walt was using to poison me. If he was, then I was supposed to die today. I felt pretty terrible, but not like I was going to die, whatever that feels like. Plus, I didn't have the tell-tale burning sensation in my mouth.

So he was probably giving me arsenic. To return the favor I'd need to procure the ash of treated wood. Two big challenges loomed large. First I'd have to get my hands on the right wood. In 2002 they wised up and stopped putting arsenic in treated wood. So I'd have to find old wood. A simple trip to Home Depot wouldn't do. And then somehow I'd have to burn it.

But where did Walt get the old wood? Probably the basement. I'm sure he hadn't left it lying around for me to follow his gruesome path.

I fantasized about more violent options. I could attack him somehow. It was sort of fun to consider, but I sighed, realizing the folly of it. If we were both healthy, he would kick my ass nine times out of ten. In my current state, an attack would be suicidal. The only way it could work would be right after his chemo. But even then, I'd need to increase my chances with some kind of sedative. Maybe I could spike his chemo drip bag with a sedative, or for that matter, with the arsenic itself.

Walt, Thursday Afternoon, Day 23

So, Saul was on to me. It was inevitable. He wasn't as much an idiot as he seemed. God knows why he puts on that act, though he has toned it down since he left Albuquerque.

How will Saul retaliate? The obvious choice was arsenic, and he could get it the same way I did. The burned wood was safely stowed in my cabinet, but the fresh wood was out in the open. I went down to the basement. The cool humidity forced a shiver. I gathered up the wood and locked it away and then scoured the dank cellar to be sure there was no more wood. I peered up at the rafters of the unfinished ceiling. If Saul were truly enterprising, he could pilfer a cross-section of wood from the rafters. But so what if he did? He'd still have the challenge of burning the wood and administering the poison.

Anticipating Saul's revenge brought to mind another project: Jack Welker. How was I going to my money back and take out him and his crew? The hit man idea had been a disaster. Was there still a way to pursue that angle? The original middle man, Simon, was obviously not a viable option. Even if I could shake him down to get my money back, he couldn't be trusted. Did Saul have other contacts that could help to arrange a hit? And how could I get access to the contact list that resided only in his head?

I could just execute the killing myself. Or I could make Saul do it. I could send him in to their camp strapped with explosives, demanding the return of my money. But I would need to be there to make him do that. And how would I get him into the camp… It was enticing to think about, but it fell short on the realism scale. No, I would have to go myself. Returning to Albuquerque was likely a guaranteed death sentence, but what, in this fugitive life, wasn't?

Saul, Thursday Night, Day 23

I left the theatre at 2:45am. Big fat rain drops started falling just as I reached my truck. I cranked the ignition once, twice. The engine sputtered to life. I groaned, hoping that wasn't a sign of impending car trouble. When I pulled into the driveway I saw the flickering of candles in the windows. It reminded me of going to Chuck's, always an embarrassing experience-the markers of his disability painting a veneer over my brother's heady achievements.

Inside, Walt was sleeping in the blue velvet chair. He didn't stir when I came in and I wondered if this was my opportunity. Could I plunge a knife through his evil heart before he roused? Did I even have it in me? Before I could allow myself to linger in the fantasy or, God forbid, act on it, I heard some less courageous part of myself call his name, breaking the spell.

Walt still did not wake, but now his consciousness had been called one more level forward. I wasn't going to shake him: that would probably get me shot or at least slapped. I dropped my keys on the coffee table and he came to.

"Hey, buddy," he squinted at me, "how was your day?" I was so weary of this verbal tennis that we played, going through the polite routines of everyday language while privately sizing each other up.

"Lousy, this flu doesn't seem to be going away. I felt… I feel horrible," I said, playing along. _Yes, Walt, you are still winning. I know about the poison, but I'm still ingesting it, unwittingly._

"I'm sorry to hear that. Were you able to watch _The Counselor_?"

"Yeah, I'll tell you about it tomorrow. How was your day?" _You miserable fuck. Boring as hell I hope. And fueled by fears of your inevitable capture._

"Oh, you know, same routine. Some news, some chess. I downloaded a chess app. You know, those smart phones are phenomenal, I should have switched to one long ago."

"Frank, I have to ask you something…" I took a shot at piercing the veil. "Yesterday you told me about me being mentioned on CNN." He nodded slowly. "Well, I looked it up myself—you know, my big moment on CNN, had to see it for myself—and I saw that the article was published on Sunday." I just wanted to see how he would react and I wanted him to know I noticed.

He took a beat—composing a lie, I supposed—and then he said, "You've been so sick, I didn't think you could handle it. Besides, you weren't going out."

It was the obvious excuse, but unfortunately it also made sense.

"Can you do me a favor and not try to protect me from the truth," I said, again testing boundaries.

"Sure, buddy, that's a reasonable request."

"I'm gonna make some soup," I said. "Do you want any?" _Poison perhaps?_

"No, thanks."

I went into the kitchen and washed a clean pot. Then I retrieved a can of soup from the cupboard. That's when I saw it: a box of rat poison. I inspected its contents: bright blue rice-like grains. Here was a new possibility. I replaced the box on the shelf and prepared my soup. It needed some salt, but no way I was going to use anything that was already opened. Walt headed off to bed.

I waited a half-hour and then grabbed the gas-fueled camp lantern that illuminated the dining room and headed down into the basement. It was crowded with over-flowing piles of college student crap. Books, clothes, soccer balls, basketballs, frisbees. But no baseball bats or tennis rackets.

The windows had all been blocked out using pieces of cardboard. It made me wonder why Walt wanted to be so meticulous about his goings-on down here. Then I saw a television and thought, of course, he had to block out the flickering blue light of the TV. But what would he watch? I doubted there would be reception. I noticed that the TV was hooked up to a VCR.

This hit a nerve. Had Walt watched my "Better Call Saul" ad reel? Of course he had… I was trying to clutch at a vague memory of our discussing it. When did we talk about it? I know we did, but I couldn't remember it clearly. Trying to resurrect the memory only served to tax my pain riddled head which was already shot through with a pounding ache. I let the remembrance slide away.

Nearby a workbench stood in cold relief: no tools, not a speck of dust, not even sawdust on the old wood surface. Just a conspicuous absence which marked the space as the lab of the great chemist. The discovery of this wretched place made my bones ache and deep inside it stoked a dull flame which lusted for revenge. But thinking back to my missed opportunity in the living room, just an hour before, I longed for the strength to see it through.

Continuing my exploration I came across a cabinet secured by a padlock, the shininess of which screamed of its recent acquisition. Walt must be using his beloved smart phone to buy the tools of his dark arts off the internet. And he was sequestering those tools here. I knew without looking that I would not find a bolt-cutter, or any other implement that could smash a padlock, or a skull. I noticed with disappointment that it was a combination lock. A keyed lock I might have been able to pick; I'd done it before. Nor was it the kind of combination lock that had a keyed access on the back in case the owner forgot the combination. It was a piece of shit lock, really, just strong enough to defeat me.


	12. Duel

Saul, Friday Afternoon, Day 24

At 10:00 am I was awakened by the blare of my alarm. It seemed unfair somehow, its rousing me from my sleep only five or so hours after I had gotten there. But sleep was just a riddled anxiety trip. The snails had become the nightly creature feature. They were nastier now. They bit and mocked me. No, I didn't want anymore sleep.

But getting out of bed was no escape. As I sat up I became aware of an insistent pounding in my head. It was like there was someone deep inside of me banging to get out. My true self, the self I would be if I didn't feel like shit all the time, if I didn't have to constantly check over my shoulder to see who was trying to undo me.

My stomach felt locked in a seizure of cramps. I wasn't getting any better and figured that meant that I was still ingesting the poison. But how?

I thought about calling in but Lacey wouldn't take it well. The fact that she hadn't let me go already was probably only indicative of how rare projectionists had become in the Twin Cities. Technology was killing the projectionist. They must have all fled to other occupations or they were as old as the wind.

Before work, I needed to get to Whole Foods. There I picked up some charcoal pills and alkaline water with electrolytes. I had been guzzling the pop from the Coke machine at the theatre but now I would switch to water and Gatorade.

Once at work, I finished dropping new trailer reels into the existing films, gave the once over to the new films, and got everything threaded up. The afternoon was uneventful, which is just how you want it in a movie theatre.

I was looking forward to Taryn's arrival in the evening. She came in about a half hour early and came right up to see me in the booth.

"Hi, sweetie," she said. At first, I thought those affectations of hers were forward, but then I realized she spoke to just about everyone that way. I found it special anyway. No one had called me sweetie in years.

"Hi, Taryn," I replied. She approached me like she was going to peck my check. God, I wanted her to. But instead I said, "You should keep your distance, I still have a bug."

"Oh, baby, yeah, you still don't look good. Have you been to the doctor?"

I started to tell her that I had, but I couldn't bear lying to her. "No. I'll go Monday if I'm still feeling bad." She gave me a look of disapproval, her brows furrowed.

"You need to get better. You promised to take me out, remember?"

"Yes. Why don't we plan on it for Monday or Tuesday? I'm sure I'll be better by then."

"That sounds lovely, Paul. But let's shoot for Tuesday. Monday is Halloween. We don't need to be running into any crazies out there…. I'll let you get back to threading. Are you going to come downstairs later or keep hibernating up here like a recluse?"

"I'm feeling like a recluse. Will you come up and see me on break?"

"Sure, sweetie. I can bring you some soup?"

"That would be great." She knew my favorite was the chicken rice soup at the diner next door.

Walt, Friday Afternoon, Day 24

After Saul left I inspected the basement door. I had placed a slip of paper in the door jamb, and it had fallen out. A chill crept up my spine but then I reminded myself who I was dealing with… what could Saul really do to me? Nonetheless, I went downstairs to see what he had been up to. I went straight to my cabinet and found it unmolested. I unlocked the cabinet anyway and took a quick inventory. Everything seemed to be in place.

I noticed the TV and VCR. I hadn't meant to leave them out in the open like that. It wasn't a big deal, because I wanted him to know about the tape. And in his delirium he had revealed that he did. Still, mistakes could be costly in this little game we were playing. Every move had to be one of intention.

My next stop was the kitchen. Saul hadn't been in there much. He had been content to let me do the cooking until he realized I was poisoning him. I went straight for the cupboard and checked the rat poison. Sure enough it had been moved. I opened up the box; it seemed to be at the same level as where I'd left it. But it was hard to say. He could have taken out a tablespoon. I now had to assume that he had 'poison' in his possession. But what would he do with it? Would he be content just to poison me? Or would the poisoning only be a means to a further end?

In any event, I needed severe consequences. First of all, I'd need something to punish Saul for poisoning me. Secondly, once he discovered that it was the Xanax that was poisoning him, I'd need something to serve as a new control mechanism. I gave Patrick Kuby a call.

"It's me," I said to him but he didn't recognize my voice. "Chuck McGill's friend," I clarified.

It took a moment for him to connect the dots. "Oh, hey," he finally said.

"I have a new job for you."

"Let's not talk about it over the phone."

"Look, I don't have many communication options. Do you want to make $25,000?"

"What do I have to do?"

"Start a fire."

"I told you, I'm not a hit man!"

"Just a fire… no one gets hurt."

Kuby listened as I fleshed out the details.

"You in?" I asked.

"$35,000," he replied.

"I'll send you a package."

I headed upstairs and located Saul's tote bag. It was like a bank open for business. There was probably a million dollars left after my withdrawal to cover Ed's bribe and the Dobbs' IDs. I loved using Saul's money against him; it wasn't really _Saul's_ money anyway. It was all earned off of _my_ ingenuity, _my_ high quality product. And what was Saul going to do about it? Lecture me?

Next I scoured the basement to find a box the right size for the money. The next day I would need to flag down the mail carrier. That would involve going outside which would compromise my cover. For the benefit of nosy neighbors, I would have to drape a large piece of foil over my shoulders.

Saul, Friday Night, Day 24

As the seven o'clock shows started to play, I stood by one of the projectors watching the trailers. I had just dropped in _Dallas Buyers Club_ and I wanted to see what it was about. I watched the film with no sound, so it was a little hard to tell what was going on. Something about emaciated people and drugs…

And it clicked. Walt was poisoning me with drugs! How obvious! And metaphorical, I had to give Walt credit. Metaphorical, in a sickening way.

My hand was jittery like an addict. Clumsily I popped the lid off the Xanax bottle. Some spilled to the floor. The remainder I dumped out on the work table. I studied the pills. They all had the score on one side but some of them were lacking the Xanax imprint!

I felt dizzy. Until this moment, for some crazy reason, I did not one hundred percent believe that Walt was poisoning me. I couldn't believe; it was too painful to think that someone would do that to me. But now I knew how he was doing it for sure. I felt like I could hear the _Psycho_ violins playing their sinister song. How could he be so vicious? Every time I sought the safety of my Xanax, Walt was thrusting me deeper into the abyss. It was like being buried alive.

My heart was pounding hard. I felt panicky. I wanted a Xanax. I gave a pathetic laugh, realizing I couldn't trust any of the pills in my possession. I brought two of the pills into the bathroom where I could turn the light on full bore. One had the imprint, the other didn't. I saw that they weren't exactly the same color nor were they precisely the same size. So somehow Walt had manufactured his own evil little impostor pills, his laced with arsenic.

I threw the two pills into the toilet, then I wished I hadn't. After all, now I had in my hand the means to return the favor to Walt. I had the arsenic, now all I needed was a way to administer it. But what would be the point of poisoning Walt? Sweet revenge, surely. But, I'm not that guy… I don't use violence and horror to accomplish emmyem/ ends.

In any event, the game was over. I couldn't continue to live with a man who was poisoning me. But I couldn't just walk away either. If I did, Walt couldn't call the police—the police presented a bigger risk for him than for me. But he _could_ make good on his threats to Kim and Chuck. Any exit plan on my part would have to neutralize that possibility.

And what about Taryn? Was my involvement with her putting Taryn and Daunte at risk? If I cared about her, then I should end this mutual infatuation or friendship, or whatever it was we had. But besides Chuck and Kim, Taryn was all I had—the idea of her anyway. I didn't know if she felt the same way about me. I had fallen her ridiculously hard and fast. I didn't really know her; it was a stupid schoolboy crush. Still, while Chuck and Kim represented chapters that were likely closed, Taryn was the future, all cheery and innocent.

I was still obsessing about her when she came up for break. Furthering the relationship would only heighten the cruelty… but I couldn't bring myself to be a gentleman. A dreamy optimism led me to ignore the warning sirens blaring in my already aching head.

She brought me a soup and a salad and had the same for herself.

"Let me pay you for that. And the groceries," I said, reaching for my billfold.

"Oh, no, Paul, it's my treat."

"Don't be ridiculous. I see you working two jobs. I doubt that you're here at the theatre for the fun of it. Besides, trust me. I can afford it."

I thumbed through the fat stack of bills in my wallet and I handed her one of my $50s. "Ooh…" she replied.

That was a stupid thing to do, I realized. Showing off with my money. I know it was rooted in trying to impress Taryn. And more so, in some weird way, trying to be authentic with her, hinting at who I really was. And who was that? A criminal on the lam looking for acceptance? A coward who's too nice to do the difficult thing? That's attractive.

Trying to change the subject I asked, "How's Daunte doing?"

"He can't stop talking about threading."

"I shouldn't have shown him that. It's a dying art."

"No, Paul, it's the fact that you showed an interest emin him/em. You're the first adult male since his father to do that."

"He's a good kid. Smart."

"He's on his best behavior here. I put the fear of God in him over keeping this job."

After break, I stood watching the images of Robert Redford trying to chase down his own demons while fighting the waves that would consume him. I didn't know how I would administer the poison, but I did know that it would involve crushing the pills into powder. For this I needed to get one of those pharmacy things: a cup and a masher. What were they called? I looked it up: mortar and pestle. They had it at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I guess this was part of their 'beyond' inventory.

I wasn't clear how I was going to poison Walt, or even emif/em I was going to do it. Though, fantasizing about it gave me a bit of a charge and, at the same time, a measure of solace. I would target Tuesday as the big day. It was perfect and it was risky because it was obvious: it was chemo day. Walt would be on his guard. Maybe the best solution was to surprise Walt by doing nothing on that day.

I had another problem. I couldn't just stop taking Xanax under Walt's scrutinizing eye. Each moment that the fluttering sensation of panic had sent me reaching for my pocket, he had probably notched a little victory. I couldn't deprive him of those small wins. A sudden cessation would be a sure give away that I not only knew that he was poisoning me but that I knew how as well.

Somehow he was fucking with the pills in my pocket. He must be slipping into my bedroom at night. That would have been easy enough once I got sick. But how did he get in there in the first place? On a Thursday… he could have slipped me a mickey. Yes, that's right; I first got sick on a Friday.

So, I would have to offer up the appearance of continuing to take the Xanax while somehow protecting myself from the tainted pills.

I could think of two options: cut up some purple candy, Sweet Tarts maybe, and take those instead, or carefully take only the imprinted Xanax. Option A sounded safer. Before I went to bed I'd have to hide my Sweet Tarts and fill the bottle back up with the tainted Xanax. It would be a pain in the ass, but it seemed the best plan.

There was yet one more problem. If I cut off my supply of Xanax entirely, I would withdraw. I couldn't imagine anxiety gripping me even more tightly than it had over the last couple of weeks. I could take the risk and continue to consume the imprinted pills. It was a lesser of the two evils proposition: face my anxiety alone or chance the continued poisoning. Anxiety seemed the better option. After all, it only _felt_ like dying. I went downstairs to buy some Sweet Tarts.

Saul, Saturday Morning, Day 25

By Saturday, I was feeling a little bit better physically. It had only been about twelve hours since I'd made the discovery about the Xanax, so maybe it was just the knowledge that I was no longer consuming the poison that buoyed me.

I left the house early so that I could go purchase a mortar and pestle. I was going to prepare to poison Walt. Whether I would defy my own nature and follow through on it, I didn't know….

I would need a hiding place for the mortar and pestle. The truck seemed like the safest place. I removed the contents from the glove compartment and put them under the passenger's seat. Then I locked the mortar and pestle into the glove compartment. The lock used the same key as the ignition, so it wasn't high security. More out of sight than safe and sound. I wondered, if I decided to go the poisoning route, where would I grind up the pills? The projection booth, the truck, my bedroom, in the woods… all of these locales presented their own set of problems.

When I arrived at the theatre, Daunte came up to the booth to see me.

"What it is?" he said.

"Not much going on here. What's up with you?"

"I've got the SAT coming up," he was hanging his head. "Did you have ta go to college? A projectionist don't need no college, right?"

"College…" I sighed and thought of my own college experiences: Roosevelt University in Chicago, followed by American Samoa online. Then I thought about Paul Dobbs' background: a couple of years at DeVry, no degree. "I went to college because I _wanted_ to. But I ran out of money, didn't graduate," I told him.

"See, and you're doing all right."

"No. A projectionist is a crap job. I only make a few dollars more an hour than you do and the hours are crap; I work about sixty hours a week, all weekend."

"But then you get overtime."

"You get overtime, but what's the trade off? You're missing life. No, better to find something that pays a higher wage, or better yet, be salaried."

"Can I thread?" he asked.

"Sure."

He rolled the film slack up on to the platter and put down suction cups to keep the film in place. Then, tentatively he took the film leader and passed it through the brain mechanism and began to thread the projector.

"Daunte, the more education you have, the more control you have over your work destiny. I had a friend who became a lawyer. He was charging people over $4,000 to defend them. Each."

"Do you mean like Brett Magnuson?"

"Who's that?"

"He got some dumb ass ads about getting your 'ho out of jail and shit."

"It's whatever you want it to be. If you want to work with 'hos and shit, you can. If you want to defend corporations, you can."

"Oh, I'd rather defend a 'ho."

"Me too," I smiled and we laughed.

The films started firing up for the 12 o'clock shows. Every fifteen minutes another movie would begin. As they did, I stood by watching the trailers, making sure everything was playing straight. Daunte had done a nice job with the threading. No wobble in the slack, everything in frame.

As the last film started, I stared transfixed by the colored lights flickering on the booth window. I was thinking about Walt. The worst possible outcome from his perspective would be to end up in prison, his money seized. Walt would rather die than end up behind bars. Poisoning Walt wouldn't get him any closer to prison. It would just keep him homebound—which he already was. Poisoning also presented the possibility of accidentally killing him. That would be bad for me. I mean, a) I'm not a murderer, and b) I'd have to flee. Eventually the police would discover the body and there would be an intensive search for Paul Dobbs.

So, poisoning Walt, as tempting as it was, was out. And Walt going to prison, that would be bad for me too. In almost every prison scenario, Walt gives me up. Would I rather die than go to prison? It was sort of a toss-up as I figured prison for a death sentence anyway.

The best option for me was to just walk away, but I couldn't do that until Kim and Chuck were safe. How was I going to make that happen? The beauty of fleeing would be that Walt couldn't rat me out without revealing himself. Even if he made an anonymous call, they'd track him down. I'd make sure. No wonder Walt has been so focused on keeping me too sick to flee.

So, how to keep Kim and Chuck safe?

Walt, Saturday Morning, Day 25

If Saul was going to retaliate he'd need every conceivable advantage to do it. I would be at my most vulnerable on Tuesday, chemo day. And my weakest link would be my IV drip bags. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I could see: there was no way Saul would pass up tainting my chemotherapy. After all, it would be poetic justice to poison my medicine just like I had poisoned his drugs. Saul was into metaphor.

Spiking the bags would have been easy for him to do. There was a port on each bag for the purpose of adding medication. But it would also be pretty easy for me to detect. If Saul was using rat poison, or arsenic, the most he could do would be to pulverize the poison into a fine dust. That would be visible in the bag. And anyway, I wasn't going to give him a chance to do that.

As part of our electromagnetic hypersensitivity cover, Saul purchased bags of ice every day. Usually, we just dumped those bags out in the sink. But for a couple of days now, I had been saving them up. Now I placed them in a portable cooler along with my IV drip bags. I took the cooler downstairs to my cabinet, tucking them safely away.

I turned to the news and 'bingo:' today was the day my story became prominent on CNN. I was being described as the drug kingpin Heisenberg. There was a brief description of my drug empire and Blue Sky. I felt a nostalgia for the whole enterprise. I also felt an anger toward those who tore it down: Jesse, Jack Welker, and Hank.

The newscast said, "White is wanted for questioning in the disappearance of four men who are presumed dead: DEA Agents Henry "Hank" Schrader and Steven Gomez; White's former partner, Jesse Pinkman; and Attorney Saul Goodman." How could I convince them that I didn't kill Hank? I couldn't do that to my sister-in-law, and, by extension, to my wife! What kind of heartless maniac did they think I was? I could handle it when they accused me of things I'd actually done, but this business about Hank… it was driving an untenable rift in my relationship with Skyler.

The story had an image that showed head shots of all four of my alleged victims which meant that each individual picture was small. So, the authorities really did think that Hank et al. were dead. If they believed the men were missing they'd want to give you a good look at those photos in case you'd seen someone. No, they were only looking for graves now.

I couldn't wait to tell Saul the news that night. Nothing sent him scrambling for his Xanax like news coverage.

Next I turned to my chess game. I went deep into the book to the later chapters. I wanted to find a challenging problem. I set the chess board up to mimic the problem and got to work.

Saul, Saturday Evening, Day 25

By Saturday evening I was feeling markedly better. I ventured downstairs at the 5:30 break. The kids were playful about seeing me out of the booth. "Oh, no. Here comes a _walker_ ," Oliver jested, holding up his broom to fend me off.

At the ticket booth, Craig, the Security guy, was talking to Taryn. I didn't think he came in until 6pm. "Oh look, it's the _Dawn of the Living Dead_ ," he said when he saw me.

"You're here early," I greeted Craig.

"We're expecting _All is Lost_ to bring out the knuckleheads," he said sarcastically. "I thought I'd set up shop early."

"Are you going on break?" I asked Taryn. She nodded.

I joined her for a quick meal at the diner next door. It was one of those Greek joints and it hadn't been remodeled in a long time. Cigarette and gum ball machines sat by the front door making me feel like I'd just time traveled. There were lots of mirrors and worn vinyl seats that looked like they could have come from a Studebaker. We were handed menus with numbered food offerings. Over a hundred entrees swelled the menu. We needed something fast, so without delving into the outer reaches of Macedonia, I just settled on the chili.

Taryn said, "Somebody must be feeling better!"

"Yeah, thank God, I am."

"You're looking better too."

"Thanks. To listen to the kids you'd think I was something out of _The Walking Dead_."

"They haven't seen you in awhile. You've lost some weight, you know."

She was right. I was using a different hole on my belt and belts were now a requirement or my pants would hang down low like Jesse Pinkman's.

"Daunte tells me that he has the SAT coming up," I said, wishing to talk about something that involved Taryn and not Walt.

"He did? I didn't know it was on his mind." She smiled, showing her perfect white teeth. "What do you know about the SAT? Cause I barely passed it. My high school education was suspect."

"Well, it's what? Math and English? I don't know what else. I'm pretty good at vocabulary…. Do you want me to help him study?"

"That would be fantastic! Are you sure?"

"Sure! Send him by the booth after school. Or we could do Mondays or Tuesdays."

"Would this Monday work? You don't have Halloween plans?"

"Well, I thought I'd go as a zombie since I have my look together already," we laughed. "Your house?"

"Yes, say 4pm?"

We both reached for some saltines and our hands brushed. She took ahold of mine.

"Paul, you have no idea how much this means. You know my husband died young; Daunte was seven years old."

"That's an impressionable time," I said.

"Douglas wasn't the ideal husband and father, but he loved that boy."

"How did he pass away?" I asked her, aware of the warmth from her hand.

"Heart attack, a congenital defect. At 39." She could probably see me doing the math in my head because she added, "he was a bit older than me. I'm 45."

"Oh, I'm 52," I told her. She slowly took her hand back so that she could open her package of saltines. As she crumbled the crackers into her soup, I realized I had just given her my real age, not Paul Dobbs'—49.

"I'm so sorry, Taryn. That must have been very hard for you and Daunte."

"He my little trooper." She said, smiling while her eyes welled with tears. I took her hand back and held it gently. I noticed an old man giving us the evil eye.

"They're staring at us," I whispered. "Guess they haven't seen a _walker_ dating a normal person before."

She laughed.

I'd said 'dating.' And she hadn't blinked.

Walt, Saturday Night, Day 25

Saul came home around 12:30am. He was looking more energetic than I'd seen in a long time, the color returning to his face.

"Looks like you're feeling better," I said.

"But I'm not," he claimed. "I've got one of those splitting headaches… and other… stuff."

"Your system is trying to purge something nasty. I assume you don't want any clam chowder." It was a chilly day. I had picked the soup for its wintery qualities.

"No, thanks, I ate at work." He sat down on the couch and I joined him in the living room, choosing the blue velvet chair. It was the most disgusting piece of furniture in the living room, but also the most comfortable.

"There were some developments on CNN," I told him. Instinctively, he reached for his pill bottle. "Your photo was posted. It was together with Hank, Jesse, and Gomez, so it was kind of small." Saul swallowed a pill and chased it with a beer. "Let me show you," I said navigating through my phone's history.

I found the image and passed him the phone. "You see… I think this is a good thing. If they thought you were missing they'd blow up your photo and give you lots of screen time. This is the opposite. They think you're dead. They think you're all dead. And when they find Hank and Gomez's bodies then they'll be even more likely to think you're dead too."

"Hank and Gomez's bodies? You killed them?"

This guy knew how to irritate me. "I didn't _kill Hank_ , Saul. That's my own _brother-in-law_. Try to follow the storyline here. _Jack Welker killed Hank_. Which is one of the main reasons that I want to smash his head with an ATM machine. Capiche?"

"And when they do find Hank, which way is the evidence going to point?" Now here was Saul at his legalistic best, thinking about evidence and such. As soon as he said this I knew his moaning about not feeling good was a put on. He was feeling much better; his thinking faculties were coming back on line.

"Well, I can't see how the evidence will point _toward_ me. I didn't do it. But I don't know that it will implicate Jack. As far as I know, the DEA doesn't know anything about him. But that shot-up SUV will be a clue."

"Maybe it would help if you told me what went down with Jack."

I didn't want to do it. It wasn't one of my finer moments. I told Saul anyway, because if there was any chance he could spin this for me, or even help me to see it in a new light, I needed that help.

Once I gave him the details, Saul concluded, "So the only evidence that you were there is your shot-up car which was found a couple of miles a way. And then there's the witnesses, Jack and his people and Jesse."

"Jesse's dead."

"Jesse's supposed to be dead. If he's not, he's the most formidable witness against you… you signed his death warrant, he's gonna be pissed." Saul got up to get a second beer. "You want something?" he asked, I shook my head no. "Listen, let me take some time to noodle this one. I'm beat… gonna hit the sack."

Saul headed upstairs. I went and sat at the dining room table where I had my chessboard setup. I continued to work on a difficult problem from earlier in the day. I had a couple of hours to kill.

At 3:45am I grabbed a lantern. If Saul wanted to hide something, the house wasn't a good option. First he would have to walk it past me. Then he'd have the question of where to store it. There were abundant places, but none of them were secure, not even his room. If I were Saul, I'd hide things in that little truck of his. I retrieved Saul's car keys from the hall piece, put on his jacket and ventured outside. It was a cold October evening. All the leaves had come down in a recent rainstorm. Dark naked branches reached up toward a ominous sky. The night was cloudy and a swift wind was causing the clouds to race. I opened the driver's side door of the Ranger and climbed inside.

I reached under the driver's side seat. Nothing. Under the passenger's side seat, however, I found the owner's manual, a tire gauge, even the vehicle registration card… items that should be in the glove box. The glove box was locked, but the ignition key opened it. And voila, of all things to have in your glove box, Saul had a mortar and pestle.


End file.
